


Things My Heart Used To Know

by AndreaLyn



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Anastasia (1997 & Broadway) Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26819863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaLyn/pseuds/AndreaLyn
Summary: “Do you know how I knew to come back here? It is because I knew someone who worked in this palace,” he says. “They hid this music box which belonged to Prince Yusuf, and I came back to claim it so I could show the Empress that it is still possible that her grandson is alive because more things than music boxes can survive a fire. And on the very day that I am here, so are you.”“Coincidence,” Joe insists, even if his heart tells him otherwise.“Destiny,” Nicky vows. “I was meant to find you, Joe."As a child, Prince Yusuf loses his family, his palace, and his memory in a single night. Years later, a former kitchen boy named Nicky convinces an orphan named Joe that he is the lost prince and he wants to reunite him with his grandmother in Malta.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 178
Kudos: 303





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Tove for beta-ing this! Updates should be fairly frequent as this is heavily written, but there are pieces that take a little longer with editing.
> 
> In terms of the actual kingdoms, this is very much an alternate reality in which the Maghreb kingdom is one that Yusuf's family has been ruling, with the Genovese kingdom being at war. While I am borrowing very much from history, everything takes a sharp left turn and thus while they are influenced from that, they are still very much fictional in this representation. The lullaby in this piece is [Atas atas amimmi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKesppsw0kg), even if the title takes from the original. 
> 
> (There also isn't going to be a talking bat in this version, sorry)

“Why are your people always so noisy?”

Prince Yusuf has inherited his grandmother’s blunt opinion of the world, choosing not to apply a filter to any of his thoughts. At eleven, he has also learned how to make those comments cutting and sharp. Most of the time, the courtiers grimace when Yusuf makes his opinion bluntly known, to the point that he’s used to the annoyed press of their lips or the irritable scowl of someone being taken to task by a child. 

Inside his own bedroom, his bluntness (or rudeness, as some might say) has only one person as its audience, and as always, it’s mainly ignored. The noise outside the palace makes Yusuf flinch, but it does nothing to lessen his glare as he winds up his music box, staring at the kitchen boy -- the son of one of the Genovese families on staff -- who is meant to wait on Yusuf during parties. 

Nearby, the grand hall is filled with dancers sweeping across the floor. In Yusuf’s bedroom, all he has is a lullaby playing from his music box, the hum of _Atas atas amimmi_ playing on a lute’s strings. 

“They aren’t my people,” Nicolò complains. He shouldn’t be rolling his eyes when in the vicinity of a prince, but at eight, he still has manners to learn. Yusuf does his best to point out when Nicolò is failing to perform his duties, but Nicolò has the annoying habit of ignoring him and repeating the unacceptable behaviour.

Yusuf raises his chin as he looks down upon the younger boy. At eleven, he’s beginning to be arrogant enough to expect Nicolò to treat him as proper royalty. “They aren’t your people...what?”

“My _prince_ , they aren’t my people,” Nicolò mutters. 

He’s not telling the truth. The riots outside are the Genovese people, who believe that they have a right to Prince Yusuf’s homeland, simply because they have the ridiculous notion that they _deserve_ it. Never mind that Yusuf’s mother and father, the King and Queen, are kind and fair rulers, and that his Grandmother, the Empress, created a kingdom that all could be happy in. 

“It doesn’t matter that your family swore an oath to protect mine,” Yusuf scoffs. “You’re still _Genovese_.” 

The lullaby comes to an end, the music stopping in the middle of a lute’s note. 

In the lull, they hear the sound of screaming and glass breaking. Nicolò frowns as he creeps towards the open door. Yusuf ignores it for now, taking out the key for the music box around the chain on his neck, winding it up so the lullaby will restart. The lutes begin again, but even the music is not enough to drown out the nearby chaos. Something is happening, and Yusuf doubts very much this is part of the party. His nerves are up, even if he reminds himself that his family has trained guards who will protect them.

“Can you see anything?” he asks Nicolò.

Nicolò shakes his head, creeping back into the room. He closes the heavy door and then locks it, which makes Yusuf feel slightly unnerved. On his way back, he picks up a book from the shelves, which is so very much like Nicolò that it soothes Yusuf. It’s just like any other night when the adults are having their dinner parties or their galas and Yusuf is stuck in his room while Nicolò pretends to ignore him with his nose inside a tome too advanced for him. 

The security team would be here if something was truly amiss, he tells himself. There’s no cause to worry yet. The lullaby begins again and Yusuf closes his eyes, thinking of sitting with his grandmother as they hummed the lullaby together, the soft scent of frankincense in her perfume. 

Yusuf will always remember the day he’d spilled a whole bottle of the perfume on one of the rugs in the dressing rooms. Now every time he passes them, he smells the perfume and thinks of his Mameti, whose main residence is Malta. He longs for her visit, especially in such trying times. 

Maybe, if he’s lucky, she’ll be back to visit again in the near future. 

“Soon, you won’t need to mind me during a party,” Yusuf shares, proud of how he’ll be amongst his family soon enough when they celebrate. 

Nicolò glances up from the book he’s reading (which looks to be on cooking techniques, filled to the brim with recipes). “You will be grown?” he teases mildly. “Take a princess on your arm and twirl her around the room?”

Yusuf smirks as he crosses the floor to close Nicolò’s book on him.

“Hey!” Nicolò protests, and that only doubles when Yusuf yanks his hand, pulling him into a clumsy box-hold. “What are you doing?” he asks, squirming slightly, though not pulling away. He knows better. 

You don’t tell a prince no, after all.

“I’ll show you just how my dancing skills have improved,” is Yusuf’s heated defense, eager to prove that he can hold his own. Nicolò is several inches shorter than him and Yusuf has only ever been taught to lead. Still, he is eleven and the intricacies of the waltz still escape him, so he ends up stepping on Nicolò’s toes a few times (earning loud yelps), and once he nearly dances Nicolò right into a wall.

By the end of the lullaby, Nicolò is laughing uncontrollably. “You are a terrible dancer,” he accuses, but he’s alight with joy.

Yusuf might be awful at it, but he has years to improve. “The princesses I dance with will follow my lead better,” he counters. “They will also be more beautiful,” he taunts.

Nicolò rolls his eyes again, moving towards the music box to set it within the storage in the ottoman once it’s finished. “You can dream of them tonight once you’ve gone to sleep, and of your parties,” he quips. 

Without the music, the sounds outside creep back in. The din could be written off as a raucous party, but then, a gunshot startles the air, sending Yusuf to press his back against the wall. If a shot has been fired, security should be here to escort him to safety. Moments pass, though, and no one comes.

“What’s happening?” he demands, heading towards the door and opening it. 

Without the heavy door blocking the noise, it’s clear that this is not a celebration, but a riot. Glass shatters, heavy thumps are heard, and more gunshots are fired, eliciting screaming in the distance.

One scream, in particular, clearer than others. 

“Yusuf,” his mother’s panicked voice calls. “Where is he? Where is my Yusuf? Someone, please hide him!”

“Mama!” Yusuf shouts, but try as he might to run to her, he’s stopped by a determined hand grasping his wrist before he can bolt out of the bedroom. He tries again, but it’s no use. As much as he’s fighting to go to her, he keeps encountering resistance.

He’s being held back. 

Yusuf whirls to find Nicolò digging his heels into the royal carpets, holding him back. Fiercely, he tries to pull away. He is taller, he is older, he is stronger, but Nicolò grips at him until his nails dig in and draw blood. “Let go of me!” he warns.

“My family swore to protect yours,” Nicolò counters, and yanks on Yusuf. 

There is the sound of more glass breaking, and a scream that sounds like one of his sisters.

Yusuf freezes in place, his mouth falling open in horror. He’s gone limp and it gives Nicolò the edge over their unmoving tug of war, able to pull him away. He barely sees what’s happening, a dull wash on his face as he realizes that the sounds of guns means that his family is in trouble and he’s being spirited away via…

“What are you doing?” he asks Nicolò when he sees the boy pulling on a lever on the fireplace.

“You might get to walk all the fancy halls, but not all of us are so lucky. Some of us stick to the secret passages,” Nicolò says, pulling on Yusuf’s hand again. “Prince Yusuf. _Please_ ,” he begs. “It is the only way I know you will be safe, please, won’t you come with me? It is what your mother wants, you heard her.” 

Yusuf stares at Nicolò’s outstretched hand. 

He should go to his family, and yet, his mother had pleaded to make sure he stayed safe. If his family truly is gone, what will running to them do? It will only give the invaders another target. It takes fighting against every ounce of his love to take Nicolò’s hand, watching as he seals the secret passage behind them. Through the cracks of light, Yusuf watches dust creep in through the cracks.

Moments later, the heavy door is pushed open again by two burly men with guns. 

“The prince isn’t here,” one of them says in Genovese. 

Nicolò claps a hand over Yusuf’s mouth, almost as if to keep him from breathing. He understands why, when the men begin to destroy all his possessions. Everything he’s loved dearly is being destroyed, and Nicolò’s hand is appreciated when they smash a picture of his family. The most loved parts of Yusuf’s life are being reduced to small pieces before his eyes, draining the fight from him. The cry of distress in his throat comes unbidden, but is stopped by Nicolò’s hand. 

His _life_ is in that room, this palace. His family is out there, not in these walls with Nicolò. He tries to fight, straining against the younger boy’s arms, but Nicolò holds onto him with such a strength that Yusuf slumps back against him. Nicolò’s nails have left half-moons in his skin, as Yusuf trembles with the overwhelming sense of loss.

“My family, Nico,” Yusuf protests, his voice small. 

Nicolò stares back at him and for a brief moment, Yusuf thinks that Nicolò will escort him back out to find his parents and his siblings. 

It’s a fine dream that’s instantly destroyed at the sound of gunfire in Yusuf’s bedroom. He jumps, crashing against Nicolò and wrapping his hands around Nicolò’s arm, to protect _him_ of course, and not because he’s shocked. 

“I’m sorry,” Nicolò whispers.

Yusuf shakes his head, because he already knows he’s lost this fight. It means walking away from everything he’s loved dear, everyone in the world who cares for him apart from a singular kitchen boy who’s trying to keep him alive. 

He only wishes he didn’t hate Nicolò so much in this moment for doing it. 

“This way,” Nicolò whispers, leading him through the passage. “And put this on,” he says, adjusting his coat to tug off and hand to Yusuf. The threads on it are beginning to tear and with it, he won’t pass for royalty.

Yusuf supposes that’s the point. He still picks at the stray threads with a dismal look at the jacket, wishing that he could have fetched his own lined with fur to keep him warm on the chilly night. 

The walls dull most of the crashing noises, but Yusuf still feels his heart pounding at every sound that filters through. His mind won’t stop thinking about his parents and his siblings, hoping they’re safe. Grasping the key around his neck, he praises their good fortune that his grandmother is not visiting and won’t be caught up in this disaster.

It will be fine, Yusuf tells himself. 

The security forces will fight back the invaders and they will reunite, telling tales of their wild night. Yusuf will be able to tell them all about the secret passages that he’s uncovered, with Nicolò’s help. 

The other boy has stopped, gesturing for Yusuf. “Here, we’re going here,” he whispers, pushing a grate open. Yusuf has to crawl on his knees to get out, one of the iron wrought spikes digging into the fabric of Nicolò’s coat and tearing it a little more. The ground outside the palace has been well-manicured, but they’ve come out in a dirtbed, which means that Yusuf’s fingernails have dirt embedded in them and moving around with the coat has made his hair frizz with sweat.

They keep low to the ground as they hurry for the perimetre, even though Yusuf notices that there is a crowd there as well, trying to break the gates down. 

Whatever chaos is upon them, Yusuf is beginning to feel like it won’t be so easily ignored or escaped. Behind him, he begins to smell smoke and fire. 

It only serves to make him move a little faster. 

Nicolò stays ahead of him, pulling Yusuf along to the gates where there’s a gap in one of them that would never let an adult through, but two young boys fit with no issue. Yusuf wonders how many times Nicolò has exploited this weakness before, playing with the other children of the staff when not serving Yusuf and his family.

Tonight, he’s grateful for it, even though it leaves them in the thick of the crowd. There are so many people that Yusuf stops minding where Nicolò is and takes his eyes off him, straining to get back to his feet. In order to crawl out, they’ve parted and Nicolò has taken his hand away.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf says, once they’ve crawled under the gates. “We’ve done it, we’ve…” He turns to find the other boy, but he’s not there. Yusuf is still wearing the too-small coat that Nicolò had thrust on him, but there’s a crowd surging into the palace, jostling him around. He’s already a dirty mess from crawling in the dust and dirt to escape, his hair a disaster and his appearance giving the look of a street urchin and no prince.

He spins, searching for the boy.

“Nicolò!” he shouts. “Nicolò, where are you?”

How can he have lost his family, his home, and now Nicolò? 

He pushes against the crowd to try and get through, but they fight back at him. The stream does not yield to him, no matter how he fights, and when he pushes harder, it sends him back, his head hitting something heavy and rendering him unconscious. “Nicolò,” Yusuf murmurs, the last name on his lips as the blackness takes him, pulling him down like a stone sinking beneath the water. 

The blackness creeps in, but what should be far more frightening is the way his memories seem to slip away from him. The palace, the fire, the family inside…

Prince Yusuf and all that he is, all that he remembers, all that he’s known.

Those memories begin to shrink away, and only blackness remains.


	2. Chapter 1

## Twenty Two Years Later

Ever since the fall of the royal family of the Maghreb empire, the country has been ruled by a republican democracy. Their current president had been picked by the people, but it’s not so long that the horrors of the revolution have faded from most people’s minds.

Nicky, formerly a kitchen boy within the palace, knows that better than most.

The night everything had come crumbling down still lives in his nightmares. His life had to be rebuilt from the ashes the next day, when he’d found out that not only did the royal family perish, but so did his parents. At only eight, Nicky had spent time on the streets, pinching pennies and learning obscure talents to earn money busking on street corners until he was old enough to be hired to do odd jobs.

Then, he’d met Andy. She’d found him when he was only fifteen and taught him that the straight and narrow could have small bends in the line without losing your soul. She taught Nicky to fend for himself and ever since he’d met her, he always had warm food in his belly.

She’d taught him survival. In return, Nicky had given her purpose.

She would argue that he’d given her a moral compass, but it’s not like hers had gone missing; it had just been dormant. Nicky’s the one who dusted it off and reminded her that just because they lived in the grey areas of life didn’t mean that they couldn’t take advantage of what they had been given to make things better for others.

They were both attractive young people, who could pass in the upper echelons in society. Nicky has been her boyfriend, her brother, her servant, and on one memorable occasion, her hooker. He’s swallowed his dignity for a multitude of jobs because scamming rich people with Andy to give back to those who truly need it means he’s willing to do anything.

Tucking the daily newspaper under his coat, Nicky Smith jogs up the steps towards the loft apartment he and Andy have been squatting in, eager to share some good news with his conspirator. Not every day is a good one, but Nicky is feeling very optimistic about today. It’s not often he has such a good lead on money, especially not when the job should be _easy_ , but today is good.

They’re going to be able to help people, once they indulge in a little subterfuge first.

Picking the lock on the door, Nicky heads inside the dilapidated loft, setting his cap down on the front chair and peering inside. There, by the window, he finds his partner in crime working on a new set of identities.

Good. They’re going to need papers to cross borders for this one.

“I got a lead on a new job, boss.”

From the look on Andy’s face, she knows that him calling her that is deliberately intended to make her scowl. They’ve been working together for the last fifteen years, and in that time, Nicky is the one who picks the jobs. He has the kind of charming young face that allows him to ingratiate himself with marks and rope them in, while Andy is so distractingly perfect that they’re able to con people out of their money and get away without them even knowing. Still, while they’re on equal ground, Nicky still likes winding her up by calling her ‘boss’, knowing that even now, it does the trick.

And after a job is done, when their riches have been redistributed to the poor people who actually need the money, Nicky knows that he’s done good, no matter who’s really in charge.

Andy is busy with a pair of tweezers as she sets the stamp on one of the passports.

She is not paying attention to him.

“Andromache,” Nicky chides, pulling down the paper.

She glares at him over it. “I heard you. What’s the job?”

Nicky lurks behind her to flip through a few of the pages, tapping on a small ad on the bottom of the fifth page. In former years, it had been splashier and bigger, but time has worn away the urgency of such a request and, he thinks, hope has also died.

_DO YOU HAVE INFORMATION ON THE LOST PRINCE YUSUF_ , it reads, followed by information being collected by a local private investigation agency.

“Oh, Nicky,” Andy sighs. “This?”

“It’s been twenty-two years since the riots at the palace and the royal family was killed,” Nicky says, and though his nightmares make it feel like it was only yesterday, it’s an eternity given the way the world has moved on. “The Empress is sitting on her money and ignoring pleas from the local children. People are sick, Andy, they are dying in poor conditions, and she sits in Malta on fine silks and sleeping in a comfortable bed, only worried about her lost grandson.”

“You’re going to break a poor old woman’s heart. I didn’t think you had this in you,” Andy comments, looking at him like she’s impressed.

“She is an old woman who misses her grandson. We are going to give her back some happiness.”

“Some _fake_ happiness.”

Nicky is not moved by the argument. As far as he’s concerned, it’s a victimless crime. They will find a man who can properly act as their Prince Yusuf. They will get the money to do some good for the capital city. She will believe that she has found her grandson, and Nicky and Andy will take a small cut to keep surviving.

Everyone will be happy.

Maybe even Nicky will be. Maybe he will finally be able to shed his guilt over not being able to better help Prince Yusuf. He truly thought they had managed to escape, only to lose the prince to a mob of invaders. There is no way that he could have survived that crowd. In truth, he feels as if he’s been mourning his childhood best friend for ages. Maybe if he can find a substitute and get the Empress’ money, he can put it all to bed.

“All right,” Andy sighs. “What is it you need?”

“Papers,” Nicky says, hurrying to his wardrobe to search for the items he’s going to need. “Passports for you and I, something that will help our esteemed Prince Yusuf across the borders, once I find him.”

“And how do you intend to do that?”

Nicky smiles winsomely as he reaches back to the newspaper and flips to the next page.

“Casting calls for a modern day Prince Yusuf for a play,” she reads in a deadpan. “You are going to get us arrested, Nicolò di Genova.”

“Nicky Smith,” he harshly replies, because he doesn’t want to think about that boy. Pushing aside a few pairs of wool socks, he finds the lockpicking kit that he’d been after, letting out a triumphant sound as his fingers seize on it. “I need to go to the palace.”

Andy returns to her documents. “That burnt down husk? Why?”

“If we’re going to convince the Empress, there’s something I need there.”

“It’ll be ash by now, Nicky. You’re only going to get depressed going back there.”

She’s not wrong. Nicky hates even passing the palace. The loss of his parents had been a gaping wound in his heart that he still feels to this day, but thinking of Prince Yusuf and his beautiful smile is something that makes his heart ache nearly daily as well. In recent years, he’s caught himself trapped in an endless loop of hypothetical thoughts about the young man. What if he hadn’t died in the crowd that night? What if he’d lived and not solely as some old woman’s lost hope?

He’d be thirty-three now, and given how beautiful a boy he was with his shining eyes and his beaming smile, Nicky imagines that he would be a strong, handsome young man. He thinks that Yusuf would be able to look upon you and make your knees weak with a single word. Maybe he would be married to a beautiful Princess and the royal family could go on.

It is a nice thought.

It’s a shame it’s not real.

“The theatre is booked for auditions this evening,” Nicky says, tugging on his coat and settling his cap back on his head. “I’ll be back from the palace by then. Can you have our papers drawn up for tomorrow? If we find someone, I want to get moving.”

“Worried someone else will beat you to the punch?”

“Always,” Nicky vows. “Is Quynh still able to get us in?”

“She’ll find a way,” Andy vows. “Go to the palace, drown in your memories,” she says, making it plenty clear how much she disapproves of what Nicky is doing. “You’re going to regret this,” is her absent sing-song comment.

He wishes that she were wrong, but she’s probably not. He’s probably going to come out of this wishing that he hadn’t gone at all, but he’s going to need to prove to the Empress that his man is the lost Prince Yusuf and there’s hopefully a music box sitting inside of an ottoman that’s going to do the trick for him.

At least, it will, once Nicky forges a key for it.

“We’re going to get that money, Andy,” Nicky insists, smiling with the thought of all the good they’re going to be able to do with it. “Just think, we’ll be able to really help people and do some good.”

Andy raises a brow, but he can see the way she’s smiling, just a little. “One day, Nicky, you’re going to let me and Quynh find you someone. All the good in the world is fine for now, but you deserve someone to come home to, the way I have her. One last job, and then we get to turn our attention to you. Deal?”

“Deal, boss,” Nicky vows.

He thinks after he puts this one to rest, he could use the break. It’s all too close to home and his own past, almost a little too close for comfort. Setting his mind on the task, Nicky tucks the lockpick kit away and heads to the palace, unable to keep his mind from drifting back to the same old hypothetical daydream it’s been prone to wandering to these last few years.

Prince Yusuf, clad in fineries and silk, on the dance floor, laughing and smiling as he beckons Nicolò into a waltz.

It would be so nice, wouldn’t it?

And that’s how he knows it’s all a dream.

Princes don’t dance with kitchen boys, after all.

* * *

“That’s the last of it,” Joe says once he’s hauled his things into the back of his heap of a car.

He says _his_ , but the truth is that it’s not really.

It’s been given to him because it barely works and Joe’s only managed to get it going with a little luck and a lot of leaning over the local mechanics to see what they’re doing. They don’t think the car is going to last, but Joe doesn’t need it to last very long.

Finally, he’s got a job and that means he gets to leave the orphanage and head to the city. This place has been home to him for the last twenty-two years and for the last twelve he’s been employed as a teacher for the young ones. Still, he’s been desperate for a chance to escape and _do_ something with his life. It’s taken ages, but he’s finally got that chance thanks to the job he’s secured and the money that will lead him to his dream.

“You’re sure about this?”

Joe gives a fond smile to Booker, who looks at him dubiously past his reading glasses. Joe approaches, hauling him into a bone-crushing embrace as he pulls him in. “Ah, you don’t have to say you’ll miss me so loudly,” he says, doing his best to attempt at spinning him around before he sets him down, but he doesn’t get very far with Booker dragging his feet like he does. “Besides, you know me. I’ll say the wrong thing....”

“You do that a lot.”

“...maybe I’ll have too strong an opinion…”

“Haven’t figured out a way to stop those,” he harrumphs.

Joe grins broadly. “Then, I’ll be back teaching your brigands and hooligans and modelling them to be just like me.”

“I take it back,” Booker says, waving at him dismissively. “I wish you the very best, there are no doubts in my mind you’ll succeed.” He takes a small wallet fold and presses it into Joe’s hand while he’s got him near. “Take this,” he encourages. “It’s not much, but it will help you.”

Joe unfolds it to see a few hundred dollars tucked away. Other than a key on a chain around his neck without a matching lock, it will be the only thing he has in this world beyond the possessions in a few small bags.

“It’s not enough to get you the papers you need to go to Malta, like you’ve dreamed about, but it should make you comfortable while you earn a wage,” Booker says, his voice heavy with emotion.

He’ll never say it, but he’s going to miss Joe.

Lucky for Joe, he knows it. “I will come back to visit,” he insists. “You brought me in when I had nothing. You’ve been my family, old man.” Booker grumbles at the reminder that he’s not as young as he used to be, but Joe means it. Booker’s own children are also grown, his grandkids lurking around the orphanage to help, but Booker’s been like a father to him, as well.

“You’re a good kid, Joe. You were when you were eleven and you came to us. You are now,” Booker vows, grasping his shoulder to guide him to the car.

Joe goes with him, right up until the moment he stops.

He doesn’t mean to drag his heels, it’s only that for years he’s always avoided the topic of him arriving at the orphanage. It’s been alternately too painful and too frustrating at the same time. Now, though, on the cusp of leaving this place behind, he thinks he should ask.

“Tell me about that day.”

Booker lets out a huff of laughter. “You’re stalling,” he accuses.

“I am,” Joe agrees, “and I also want to know.”

Booker presses his lips together, shaking his head like he’s considering sending Joe off without answers. This is why Joe has learned to bat his lashes and plead with his eyes, a puppy-dog pleading look that’s never failed him before. Screw the fact that he’s thirty-three, it still works for him.

“You menace,” Booker laughs. “Fine. I’ll tell you what I know, but it’s not much and it’s depressing,” he scowls. “You were brought here by someone who’d been at the capital during the riots. They said they found you bleeding in the streets wearing that old coat with the holes in it.”

Joe remembers it. He’d thrown it out eventually, but he remembers stubbornly clinging to it when he’d first arrived. Joe couldn’t remember anything, but he could remember that it meant something to him.

“You were in your pajamas with just the coat. The best we can assume, you lost your parents during that night and went looking for them, only to have your head knocked about,” Booker says apologetically. “I asked you what your name was and you told me that you couldn’t remember, so I let you pick. You picked…”

“Joe Jones,” he finishes for Booker, knowing this part of the story. “And I had nothing else on me?”

“Only that chain around your neck with a key to a lock we’ve never found,” Booker says, nodding towards the piece he’s talking about. “You were a good kid. Quiet,” he admits, “almost like something terrible had happened. We assumed that it was just because you lost your family that day. It was a harrowing day, the riots.”

Joe presses his lips together, straining to remember _anything_ , but as always, his head aches the more he tries to unlock the past.

“Do you think I’ll ever make it to Malta?” Joe asks, changing the subject.

“With your stubborn attitude?” Booker snorts, shaking his head as he adjusts his reading glasses. “You’ll have made the money in no time to secure an exit visa out of the country. Soon, all the Maltese artists will know the name Joe Jones.”

It’s a shame that Joe doesn’t know his actual name and could make his fame and fortune with it.

“And my family?” he asks, unable to quash this hope. “Do you think maybe some of them are still out there?”

“What I know is that you won’t find any of them here at the orphanage,” is Booker’s opinion. “Now, go. Show everyone in the capital what you can do and you had better _write_. Don’t be like Nile, heading off and finding the rest of her family and leaving us all behind.”

Joe rolls his eyes. “Nile writes to you monthly.”

“And it used to be weekly,” Booker huffs. “My point stands.”

“Yes, old man, I will write to you. You’ll probably make one of your boys drive you to the capital so you can stalk me yourself and make sure I’m settling in,” Joe says with the knowing air of a man who knows this man.

He might not have his childhood memory, he might not know his family, but above all other things, he knows Booker. He loves him, in the way that you should an adopted father, and Joe is beyond grateful for all the help he’s received from him. It’s time for him to move on, though, set out on a new path.

It’s time for him to journey into the future.

Sliding his backpack into the passenger seat, Joe climbs into the car and manually rolls down the window so that he can speak to Booker. “I’ll call as soon as I get there.”

“You’d better,” Booker says, leaning over to give the hood a few pats, almost like permission to leave. “Be careful, Joe,” he warns. “We don’t know if you’re from the city to begin with. You’re a grown man now, and I know that you can look out for yourself, but…”

“I know,” Joe cuts him off. “I love you too, old man.”

“Now go, get out of here,” Booker waves him off. “Go find your happiness, Joe. I know it’s out there.”

Joe has to hope that Booker is right. Turning the key, he listens to the engine struggle to turn over, but on the third try it comes to life. He waves to Booker, taking one last look at the orphanage in the rearview mirror as he settles in for the drive. It’s terrifying to be leaving the only home that he’s ever known, but it’s time.

There’s a whole world out there and he’s ready to find out what’s waiting for him.

* * *

In Joe’s mind, his arrival to the capital was meant to be a triumphant arrival. He’d quickly find his way around, meet his new boss, and settle in at the studio apartment he’s renting with Booker’s help. He’s been driving for days, sleeping in his car at night, and he’s finally arrived in the capital, eager for the victorious satisfaction to fill him.

Reality is far crueler.

The only triumphant thing about Joe’s arrival is the loud sputter of his engine when his car dies, right in front of the massive gates of the palace, still miles away from the apartment he’s meant to bring his things to.

Joe’s not supposed to start the restoration project at the palace until tomorrow, but he also doesn’t know where else he’s meant to go if he’s going to find any help. Parking the car, Joe winces as the door nearly falls off when he shuts it. He reaches in for his satchel, yanking it over his shoulder so that all his best sketchbooks and brushes are with him as he wanders towards the door.

He doesn’t have much in the world, but he’ll fight tooth and nail to protect what he does.

Creeping inside, Joe’s hoping that maybe there’s a security guard or someone else here that might have access to a phone or some other form of communication. Maybe even someone who has a cousin that sells cars and can take apart Joe’s heap for scrap and give him something that works.

“Hello?” he calls out, wandering deeper into the palace.

It’s been twenty-two years since the fire sparked by the riots burned down the palace, but no one has ever been given permission to restore the building until now. It’s almost like it’s been left as a symbol of what they’ve moved away from. Even now, they’re only restoring a wing of the palace to be used by the local government for their meetings. The carpet is singed and he feels as if he’s choking on ash. The whole place gives Joe a strange feeling, but then, he’s standing where he doesn’t belong.

He creeps up the stairs of a main ballroom to the landing to get a better view of the room he’s in, struck by how he swears he remembers this place. Maybe when he was little, he’d come to the palace for a visit or perhaps he’d seen a recreation of this great big ballroom in a book.

He whistles as he moves, an old lullaby he barely remembers, ascending to the top of the landing where he comes across a massive painting overlooking the grand room.

The portrait is of the royal family -- the grandmother Empress, the King and Queen, and all the little princes and princesses. They’re all beaming, content, happier than he’s ever felt. It distracts Joe, completely absorbing his attention as he stares at their kind eyes in the portrait, wondering if every subject in the country had felt this way about the royal family.

Their painted smiles look fondly upon him and Joe feels like they’re _approving_ , somehow.

He’s so tangled up with the painting that he doesn’t hear the scuffle of movement nearby.

“You’re not supposed to be in here.”

Joe jumps, grabbing his hat off his head as he looks behind him to figure out an escape route, even if the man approaching him doesn’t look like he’d give him much trouble in a fight. He eyes him thoughtfully and reads the situation carefully, looking as the other man approaches him without looking like he belongs.

He’s guessing, but he doesn’t think he’s wrong to call his bluff. “Neither are you,” he counters, standing his ground as he watches the other man ascend the dusty stairs.

Joe’s struck by two things.

The first is that he’s not supposed to be here, so he could be in trouble.

The second and annoyingly more present thought in his mind is how wildly handsome the other man is, especially as he strolls towards him, long strides projecting confidence that matches perfectly well with his good looks.

The man is clad in a pair of loose slacks, wearing a button-down that’s rolled up at the sleeves with a waistcoat atop it. His brown hair falls over his forehead, and he keeps pushing it back, revealing a stunning pair of eyes that seem to capture Joe with every movement. There’s something oddly familiar about him, maybe the eyes, though Joe also doesn’t think he’s ever met this man in his life. Joe tries to quiet the interest, because he has to go back to the first point and make sure that he doesn’t end up arrested just because he’s trying to find help for his shitty car.

“In fact, with that accent, you’re _really_ not supposed to be here,” Joe scoffs, because he can tell a Genovese accent from a Maghreb one. It may have been twenty-two years since the palace and the royal family fell, but he doesn’t doubt that the people who care have long memories.

What does he give a damn, though?

He’s an orphan, nothing more than an urchin who turned up without a memory on someone else’s doorstep. He’s only here because they gave him a job restoring the old paintings before they turned the palace into a museum.

The man snorts, leaning against the banister. “I came to fetch something,” he says, holding a music box in his hands.

Joe narrows his eyes in disbelief. “You’re giving me shit for trespassing when you’re robbing the place?”

“Not robbing,” the man says calmly. “I knew where it was. I came to pick it up.”

The man steps closer, squinting at him, then glancing up to the portrait above him. He says nothing, but he reaches out to press his fingertips to Joe’s bearded chin, which he twitches away from.

“Try that again,” Joe warns. “You won’t like what happens the second time.”

The man raises both hands and steps back. “Do you not know how much you resemble the Prince?”

Joe glances over his shoulder to the portrait the man is staring at. There are several boys in the painting, but Joe’s pretty sure he doesn’t resemble any of them.

“He’s a cute kid, but I’d remember if I were born with a silver spoon up my ass.” Years of eating Booker’s best attempts to stretch out a bag of potatoes have left him lean, but also irritated at the royal family who used to live here.

Lucky bastards, all of them. At least, right up until the night they lost their lives, so maybe he shouldn’t feel so vindictively irritated with them.

“I’m Joe,” he introduces himself. “I’m just here to restore the art at the palace. They say I need to have papers to go where I want to go, but papers cost money and unfortunately, being a poor orphan from the middle of nowhere means that I don’t exactly have the money without the job.”

“What kind of papers?”

Joe can’t help his rueful smile, not sure why he’s about to tell a complete stranger about his dreams, but it feels like he hasn’t told anyone since Booker and he finds that he _wants_ to. “I’ve wanted to go to Malta since I was a boy. I have a postcard near my bed. For years, it’s all I dreamed of, but you need papers to get there and I can’t afford those. This place is the first real lead I have on a job.”

The other man stares at him in wonderment, cursing under his breath in Genovese.

“It seems destiny has made it my role to find you,” the man says, as if in awe. “I’m Nicky,” he greets. “And I have a way for you to both get to Malta and get papers, much sooner than you think.”

This sounds like a scam. Booker had warned him about this before he’d left. “How’s that?”

“I’m going to meet with the Empress,” Nicky shares, rounding closer to Joe and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Joe pulls himself away, a little unnerved by how up close and personal Nicky seems to be getting, giving him a distasteful look. “For years, she has been searching for something. Something that I think that I have found.”

This is _definitely_ a scam, thinks Joe, but he’s also just intrigued enough to want to know more. “Go on,” he scoffs. “Tell me what you found.”

“I think,” he says, still sounding utterly awed, “that I have just found the lost Prince Yusuf that I have been looking for.”

Joe laughs, loud and sudden. “Bullshit!” he accuses, shaking his head. “I should’ve known,” he mutters to himself, turning to leave before he gets in any trouble. “What a scam.” That explains the tugging of his beard and the way he keeps leaning in. “Try and pull the other leg,” he taunts.

Nicky’s eyes widen, like he’s _insulted_ at the idea that he could be wrong.

“Didn’t you say you were an orphan?”

Joe blinks, not sure what the hell that has to do with it.

“I am,” he says defensively. “And?”

“And you are, what, thirty-two? North of thirty, probably?” Nicky squints at him, making his best guesses as he steps away from him to begin circling Joe. Joe spins to keep up with him, not sure where he’s going with this.

“I don’t know.”

“What? How can you not know?”

“I don’t know, because I have no memory of before the orphanage!”

Nicky’s eyes widen and instantly, Joe knows that he’s said the wrong thing. “And you are telling me that you are not the crown prince,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “Do you know how I knew to come back here? It is because I knew someone who worked in this palace,” he says. “They hid this music box which belonged to Prince Yusuf, and I came back to claim it so I could show the Empress that it is still possible that her grandson is alive because more things than music boxes can survive a fire. And on the very day that I am here, so are you.”

“Coincidence,” Joe insists, even if his heart tells him otherwise.

“Destiny,” Nicky vows. “I was meant to find you, Joe. I think that you are the lost Prince Yusuf. You are his age, you have his looks, and you have no memory of your childhood. Anything could have happened on the nights of the riots. Maybe you were lost, or kidnapped, or you narrowly escaped with your life, but _think_ of how happy your grandmother will be to see you.”

Joe tells himself that he should ignore this. It’s bullshit. It’s clearly a scam.

The thing is, there are pieces of it that are hard to ignore.

What if he is the long lost prince? What if his grandmother is waiting for him on the exact same island he’s been meaning to go to?

Besides, what if he plays along with this? He’ll get a ticket to Malta without having to put in the time at the palace. If there’s any shred of hope that he could be the long lost prince, then he should take it, shouldn’t he? It’ll deliver him to Malta, and if it could even possibly give him a family, then he has to take the chance.

Doesn’t he?

“What do I have to do?” Joe asks, trying not to give away that he’s in. He is, and he wants to do this, even if he’s not entirely convinced by Nicky’s passionate charisma. It’s a hell of a persuasion tactic. There’s a part of Joe that’s actually starting to believe it.

Why else would he feel so right here? Why would the picture look so familiar?

And, the most telling of all, why does he look so much like the former King, if he’s not his son?

All these hopeful lies Joe’s mind is telling him paints over the likely reality that he is simply a lookalike with no memory and that the loss of his parents had been from that night of tragedy. The difference is that they were probably nobody, not royalty. Still, if it gets him to Malta and if Joe can find his long lost family, then he’s willing to give it a shot.

“If you have no memory, my partner and I will have to teach you what you are missing,” Nicky says, with a hum as he circles Joe.

Something icy sinks in his stomach and he can’t help his derisive snort. Of course the first handsome man he meets in the capital already has a partner. “What I’m missing?”

“History, etiquette, politics,” Nicky lists, stopping his assessment. “Grooming and clothes,” he adds, flicking at a hole in Joe’s coat.

Ire and annoyance build in Joe at Nicky’s dismissive attitude. “At least I can clean myself up and look proper,” Joe says, aware that he’s being snide and cruel, but the hot flash of temper that rises in him is impossible to stop once it gets going. “With a face like yours, there’s not much to be done.”

That seems to get a bristle from Nicky and Joe wonders if he’s just insulted himself out of a job offer.

Instead of being cross, though, Nicky only laughs under his breath. “You even have his imperious attitude. Maybe there will be less teaching than I thought,” he says, staring unblinkingly at Joe. He digs into his pocket to scribble an address onto the back of it. “I have to talk to my partner and make sure our arrangements are final. Meet us at this address tomorrow morning.”

Is this really happening? Did Joe turn up all of a sudden and find a way to get to his family?

Maybe the triumphant return to the capital is still on the books. He reaches out to take it, even though he probably owes Booker a call to air his suspicions. Pocketing it, Joe decides that a call back to the orphanage can wait. It would be ridiculous to worry Booker before there’s anything for him to be concerned about.

That’s all. That’s what he tells himself.

“Tomorrow morning,” he agrees. “I’ll meet you and your partner.” He keeps the acrid note out of his tone, dismayed that this handsome man is already taken.

Maybe it’s for the best. For all his good looks, he’s a rude asshole who doesn’t seem to respect Joe very much at all. Nicky nods and palms the music box into one of the pockets of his coat, keeping an eye on Joe as he departs from the ballroom of the palace, off to go dig through more of the palace’s treasures, Joe’s sure.

It’s only when Nicky is out of sight that Joe curses to himself.

He’d forgotten to ask for help with his car.

Well, when a tall, dark, and handsome stranger tells you that you’re the long lost prince, Joe supposes that forgetting a detail or two is acceptable. Crown Prince Yusuf, he thinks to himself, staring up at the family portrait and locking eyes with the young prince.

“Are you me?” he asks it.

There’s no answer, luckily.

It’s already been a stressful enough day. There’s no need to add onto it.


	3. Chapter 2

They have five auditions tonight for their Prince, which Nicky is late for.

“Where have you been?” Andy hisses at him when he settles down at the table with her. 

He gives her a complicated gesture that means to encapsulate ‘it’s been a very strange day and I might have a solution for us, but I’d like to make sure we also have a backup plan’. His fingers are very adept and Andy is very clever at picking up on his hand signals, so she understands it all with ease. 

“Fine, tell me later,” Andy sighs, and calls for the first one to come in. 

It must be a joke.

The man has flaming red hair and freckles the likes of which makeup would never hide, not that Nicky would even bother trying. He lifts his papers in front of his face, cursing to God that he didn’t vet these better. 

“I have a monologue,” the man says helpfully. “Would you like me to perform it for you?”

“Please,” is Andy’s icy encouragement, and Nicky doesn’t have to look her way to know that she’s glaring at him. 

They have to endure a monologue from a popular play about the fall of the royal family. The man gives them a sweeping bow on the way out, strolling off the stage prideful and pleased about his performance. Nicky is making scribbled notes on his papers, ignoring Andy, right up until he can’t.

“Fine,” Nicky huffs. “I should have put in the posting that monologues were not required.”

The next three are equally pitiful, mainly because the second is a petite woman, the third is barely nineteen, and the fourth happens to go the other way. 

“You know that Prince Yusuf would be thirty-three,” Nicky gently tells the man, who looks more fit to be retiring than to be seeking a long lost grandmother. 

The old man stares at them unflinchingly, as if that’s not a problem. “You’d be amazed what a little powder can do on my face. I can easily pass for thirty,” he says, despite the fact that he is balding and what hair does remain is mostly white. 

“Thank you,” Andy says calmly. “We’ll contact you if we have questions.”

There’s one more left. Nicky is expecting horror, but as he peers at the stage through his fingers, the man walking out is not too old, nor too young. He is not the wrong sex, and he even has the right curls. Andy nudges him in the side, but instead of feeling hope, Nicky is disappointed. 

He had been hoping, somewhat, that no one would compare to Joe. 

This man is mostly perfect, but there’s something about his eyes that aren’t right. Nicky tunes out as Andy asks questions and the man answers them politely enough, but something just isn’t right. He can’t put his finger on it, but he knows if he were to stack up this actor against Joe, the choice wouldn’t be difficult to make. 

He doesn’t know why, but he knows who it would be. 

“That was excellent,” Andy raves, once he’s answered the questions. “Nicky, what do you think? Should we tell him the details?”

Nicky shuffles the papers in front of him, clearing his throat as he stares at a random scribble like it contains the world’s most important information. “You are how tall?”

“I’m five foot eight.”

Nicky clucks his tongue, sighing like he’s just been told this man barely clears five foot. “Did you hear that, Andy?”

“I did,” she agrees, squinting at him like he’s lost his head. 

“We all know that the prince’s family grew to be quite tall.”

The look from Andy is only getting worse. “And we have no idea how tall Prince Yusuf would be because no one has ever seen him as an adult,” she hisses, but given that Nicky ignores her, she seems to pick up on the fact that Nicky is dismissing this man based on a supposition about height.

It’s better than telling Andy that there’s something missing from his smile.

“We’ll be in contact,” Andy says to the man. 

The actor departs, looking almost crestfallen. Any other day, prior to meeting Joe, Nicky might understand. Right now, his focus has been fixed on something else, and he can’t explain it, but he knows that Joe is their best option. 

The departure of the last actor leaves a vacuum of silence that Nicky isn’t ready to fill. “So, this backup plan of yours?” Andy asks, not prodding about Nicky’s strange actions with the last option (who would have worked, he’s sure). 

“I was at the palace getting this,” he says, reaching into his bag to unearth the small music box that Yusuf had tucked away that fateful night. He’d found it, mostly unharmed, where it had been left within the piano bench. It has small spots of fire damage, but it remains intact. He doesn’t have the key, but he suspects that they can find a forger to help them out. 

Andy runs her fingers over it, raising her brow. “That’ll get the Empress’ attention,” she admits, “but it’s not very helpful without a Prince Yusuf.”

“That’s where this gets very strange,” Nicky admits. “While I was at the palace, I ran into a man staring at the portrait of the royal family. He looked very poor, his clothes must have been passed down at least two or three times, but his _eyes_ and his smile, Andy…”

Nicky trails off, remembering how it had felt being caught up in them. His breath had been stolen the moment Joe had looked at him, almost like nothing he’d ever felt before. It had awakened a sensation in him he’d thought he couldn’t feel, but then the adrenaline had kicked in and he’d remembered the job. 

“He bears a striking resemblance to the royal family and he doesn’t remember anything of his life from before he was eleven. An orphan with amnesia and kind eyes,” Nicky says. “It is far more deceitful than hiring an actor, but maybe the honesty will sell the Empress better.”

“You want us to lie to an orphan and tell him that he’s a prince,” Andy echoes.

Well, when she puts it like that, Nicky feels like a cad, especially since he already has.

“He wants to go to Malta,” Nicky says, and this is where it feels like it’s _fate_ that Joe has been delivered to him. “He’s ready to come with us willingly. We’ll teach him what he needs to know, make him look how he needs to appear. The Empress will think she’s found her grandson, Joe will think he’s found his family, and we will have the money from the job to help people.”

“You really want the money that badly?” Andy asks him.

Deep down, he knows he does. 

Whatever guilt he might endure will be offset by the miles of good they will do with the Empress’ money. He imagines the large number of orphans that will be able to lead a better life and how deceiving one grown man for that cause is worth it. 

“I gave him one of our safehouse addresses,” Nicky says in lieu of answering her question. “He’ll meet us tomorrow. Do we have tickets for the train?”

“Papers, documents, train tickets, and a boat waiting for us,” Andy confirms, willing to go along with Nicky’s scheme. “You just have to bring us the prince.” 

“I can do that,” he vows. 

Andy squeezes his shoulder as she leans in to give him a kiss. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Home for them isn’t very far. They've been squatting in the studio space above the theatre, mainly because they inevitably get kicked out of wherever it is that they’re staying. With their tickets to Malta and a big payday waiting for them, they won’t need this dusty space much longer, which is why Nicky is happy to tolerate it. 

Tomorrow, God willing, Joe will be waiting for them and Nicky will be one step closer to liberating ridiculous amounts of money from wealthy strangers to help people. 

He just has to get through tonight. 

While he knows that deceiving one man to improve the needs of the many is the right thing to do, Nicky’s conscience and subconscious conspire that night to make him question it. He can’t sleep. He’s restless and worried, and he hates it. Worst of all, he hates the guilt that he’s feeling deep down in his very Catholic heart. 

It’s tearing him up inside at the thought of deceiving an orphan, even for the greater good, because he’s still lying. He’s being cruel, and he’s toying with a man’s life.

Nicky tosses on the mattress, ignoring the way Andy is staring at his back. He tries his best to live by his morals and his belief that they are doing the right thing, but the trouble is that he spent today lying to a beautiful man that he could be a lost prince.

“Nicky…”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Nicky mutters, shoving the pillow over his ears. 

“It sounds like you did a lot of lying today, I’m not surprised you can’t sleep,” Andy says, flicking through the journal she’s been scribbling in. “You’re sure this guy is going to work?”

Nicky is going to go to hell, but, “He’s perfect. We’ll have to shave the beard off him, teach him the history, get him the clothes. He’s an orphan who doesn’t remember his childhood,” he shares. “He already believes that he is a long lost prince, that maybe this is his family.”

“Unsurprising, given that you can be _very_ persuasive when you get something in your head,” Andy murmurs, reaching over to cup his cheek, an attempt to soothe his worries. “Think of the orphan children you’re going to help.”

Nicky does.

It doesn’t help.

“I am going to go to church and confess,” Nicky says, shoving his pillow off his head, followed by the blanket. “And _then_ , I will go to hell.”

* * *

Joe didn’t get much sleep the night before. 

He’d spent the night wondering if he’s walking himself into some kind of terrible situation. Will he be murdered tomorrow morning when he goes to the address Nicky had given him? Perhaps robbed? It’s not like they’ll get much which Nicky must have figured that out based on what Joe’s wearing.

Could they be genuine? 

What if he really is the lost prince? It would explain his lack of memories and the strange resemblance he bears to those people in the portrait. He’d gain a grandmother -- one more parental figure to put alongside Booker. It all still seems a bit too good to be true, but these people are offering him a chance to get to Malta, which is why he’ll endure it.

Maybe the reason he couldn’t sleep is because he knows that if things go sideways, he intends to get where he wants to be and split without pulling his end of the bargain. 

Exhausted and trying to ignore the clamouring doubts in his mind, Joe collects his things in his bags and heads for the address. When he arrives, it’s not Nicky waiting for him, but a beautiful woman wearing a dark green jacket that sweeps to the ground. “You must be Joe,” she says, eyeing him. “I can see why Nicky thought what he did,” she muses, raising a brow. “Come on. The train leaves within the hour and I don’t want to get stuck in the morning hustle. My morning coffee is very important to me and I won’t get that until we’re at the train.”

“Where’s Nicky?” Joe asks, not because he cares (he doesn’t, he swears he doesn’t), but because he’s never met this woman before. What if she murders him in an alleyway?

“He went ahead with the luggage. He’ll meet up with us on the platform.”

Joe doesn’t move, wary of a stranger. It’s stupid, given that up until yesterday, Nicky had also been a stranger. There had been something about him that felt _familiar_ , though, in a way that Joe can’t put his finger on. Maybe that’s just the kind of man that Nicky is. He seems friendly, like that.

Andy turns and sighs. “I will put you over my shoulder and drag you there,” she warns.

Judging by the lean muscle in her arms, Joe doesn’t think she's joking. 

“Nicky will be there, I promise. If not, you can scream that you’ve been kidnapped with witnesses around,” she says. Joe still feels somewhat reluctant to follow, but then, he’s the one who turned up to meet a pair of strangers who are convinced he’s royalty. 

He takes the first step, clutching his bags tightly. “It’ll be a shame if you turn out to be genuine, my screaming voice is really very elegant and practiced,” Joe quips, wondering what Booker would say to see him now.

Well, Joe can imagine.

It would be a very hearty string of French profanity that would have Joe aghast with the shock of such language from such an elderly figure. It’s part of why he’s not telling Booker about this. Better that Joe investigates and be disappointed before he gets anyone else’s hopes up. 

“Nicky tells me that you don’t remember anything from before you were eleven?”

“Amnesia,” Joe confirms. “No one’s ever been able to understand why. Most doctors say that there’s no physical reason that I don’t recall things, so they think that there must be something desperately grave keeping me from wanting to remember.”

Andy gestures to an alley, leading Joe towards the train station. From here, he can begin to smell the fumes of diesel in the air, something he feels like he remembers. It’s yet another locked memory that he should be able to follow, but runs into a wall when he does.

She pauses once they arrive at a bustling street. “Something like your whole family being murdered by rioters?” she suggests calmly.

“That seems to be Nicky’s theory,” Joe opines. “Booker always thought it was just losing my family. Maybe you’re both right.” 

“Cheerful,” Andy deadpans.

Joe shares a smirk with her, because she’s not wrong. He’s learned to live with his grief, mainly because it’s always been a missing piece for Joe instead of something that haunts him daily. He wishes that he knew his mother’s smile, his father’s laugh, the joy of having siblings. He wants to remember his family, but in the absence of them, there’s also the absence of grief and trauma.

He knows _something_ must have happened, but not what.

Andy takes him down another alley, but this time when they come out of it, the train is loading up its luggage and passengers, steam swirling over the platform. 

“Andy!” Nicky summons, amidst several trunks and bags. 

Andy gives Joe a slight nudge towards him. Joe’s lack of sleep is clearly making him think idiotic things, because he sees Nicky standing in the mist and thinks he looks almost like something ethereal and unknown. Joe staggers to a stop, adding his bag on top of the pile, though he keeps the small satchel with his sketchbooks and all his other precious possessions close.

The most precious, of course, being the key that hangs around a chain under his neck, hidden by the collar of his shirt. 

“Here,” Andy says, pushing a set of documents towards him. “This is your train ticket and your identification.” 

Joe glances down at it, raising a brow at the last name. “Joe Smith?” he asks. “I thought that I was meant to be Prince Yusuf.” 

Nicky glances up from where he’s hauling bags towards the train from the platform. “And what would you do if you suddenly found the prince on a train heading to the port?” he asks with a scoff. “For now, we need to keep you anonymous and hidden. We can’t risk anything happening to you. Twenty-two years is a long time, but not that long.”

Joe gets it. There could still be enemies out there.

“You couldn’t have picked a better last name? It’s the most generic name I’ve seen,” Joe complains as he tucks away the documents. “Smith,” he echoes. “It’s practically like watching paint dry.”

“It is,” Andy agrees, smirking. “Isn’t it, Nicky Smith?”

Nicky ignores her, but Joe whirls on him. “You gave me your last name?” That’s his first demand. His second unspoken question happens to be that ‘Smith’ is not the name of a man who has a Genovese accent the way that Nicky does. He suspects that the name is most definitely a front, and an uncreative one, at that. Then, his attention slides to Andy, who seems amused by all this. “Aren’t you upset?”

“What, that someone else is pointing out Nicky’s poor naming skills?”

“That your partner would share his name with me and not you,” Joe says, furrowing his brow. 

He watches the look Nicky and Andy exchange, unable to read it. Maybe he has it all wrong. Or maybe Andy is the kind of independent woman who doesn’t take another man’s name. Nicky gestures at the bags, hauling them towards the luggage compartment and leaving Andy with Joe.

“Nicky is my _business_ partner,” she says, making it absolutely clear. “You’ll meet my romantic partner when we arrive in Malta.” 

Joe’s eyes land on Nicky, watching the way his shirt pulls taut at his back, suspenders pressing against the muscles as he helps to haul their luggage onto the car they’ll be staying in. It doesn’t matter, does it? Joe is only using them to get to Malta and to find out what he can about his past. Still, he allows himself the glance, though he knows that if he is a prince, then people like Nicky and Andy are beneath him.

Or are they?

It’s not like they introduced themselves. Maybe they’re secretly nobility and once Joe has been secured back into his old life, they’ll still be there with him. Then, it won’t be such a bad thing that Joe is spending so much time staring at the way Nicky’s button-down shirt strains against his chest.

“Time to go,” Andy indicates, giving Joe a nudge towards the first class compartments. She’s been watching him keenly the whole time, which makes Joe flush as he wonders whether she’s noticed how much he’s been staring at Nicky. He shows the conductor his papers briefly and he’s waved on, followed by Nicky and Andy both.

He _swears_ that Andy gives a sigh of relief when they’re all on the train, though he’s not sure why. 

Nicky guides them down the hall as the train whistle blows, signalling their imminent departure. “We’ve got two days of travelling before we arrive at the port,” he explains, ducking out of the way to allow waiters to glide past him. “Joe, this is your cabin, the private sleeper,” he says, gesturing to one. “Andy and I will be staying next door,” he says. 

“Isn’t that a bit snug for you, especially if Andy has a partner elsewhere?”

“We’re used to cramped spaces,” Andy promises, nudging past Joe into the cabin. “Bring him in,” she says, opening her leather satchel and laying out an array of items on a towel. 

Nicky wraps his fingers loosely around Joe’s wrist and nudges him inside the cabin, closing the door behind him. Joe glances at the door as he latches it shut, then at the array of grooming products that Andy is laying out, realizing belatedly that they’re for him.

“Wait,” he says.

“I told you that we should have made him sign a contract, Nicky,” Andy muses with an amused look on her face. 

Joe’s eyes are wide, grabbing his flat cap off his head and crumpling it in his hands. The train lurches, but he’s too busy staring at the scissors and razors. Maybe he should have expected it. Princes might be able to grow beards, but the last anyone saw of Prince Yusuf, he’d been a boy. It would be quite the stretch to make a mental match if he turned up ruggedly bearded as he is today. 

“We can’t just trim it?” he suggests.

Andy and Nicky exchange a look and Joe swears they have a whole conversation in a few moments. “You’re right,” Andy tells Nicky, even though he didn’t say anything.

“We’ll leave some stubble, but keep it a close shave,” Nicky says. “Either way, we need to clean you up. You look more like a bear than a man,” Nicky says with a dismissive note in his voice, as if he’s in a position to judge.

Joe bristles at the implication, even as he sits still while Nicky reaches for the scissors. These people really should have put that in the pitch when they’d invited Joe to go with them to meet his family. He’d thought that maybe he’d get new clothes, perhaps a fancy treatment for his nails. Somehow, Joe hadn’t stopped to think that they might shave off his beard. 

“You’re one to speak,” Joe scoffs. “Your hair isn’t even growing in the same direction. You look as if you’ve come out of a storm.”

Nicky says nothing. Then, he aggressively shoves his hand in his hair once, twice, and then a third time to try and fix it. Andy coughs beside them, but Joe can tell she’s only doing it to hide a laugh. “Most people like it,” he says defensively.

“Most people like it when you’ve washed it more than you have this week,” Andy opines, reaching out to tweak a few strands. “Joe’s right. I think there’s still dust in here from the last storm.”

Nicky pulls away sharply from the touch, cursing at Andy in Genovese, which earns a smile and a laugh from her. The words in _that_ foreign language unsettles Joe, though, and for reasons he’s not sure he can put into words. It’s a pit in his stomach, something that unnerves him, as if he’s now expecting something to happen.

Better to focus on what they’re here for and not why hearing the Genovese language makes him feel flush all over, both wary and nostalgic at the same time. 

“Are you sure the Empress is my grandmother? That she’ll recognize me once you clean me up?”

Andy looks him over with an easy smile. “Positive,” she assures. “That’s why we need to seek an audience with her.”

“As easy as that?” He bristles when Nicky comes too close with a pair of scissors. “You’re going to impale me,” he warns.

“Only if you don’t shut up,” Nicky bites back at him.

Joe breathes in deeply and forces himself to calm. Nicky’s not wrong. If he keeps moving, he’s liable to end up on the sharp end of a pair of scissors, and no one wants that. He closes his eyes and forces himself not to squirm, even though he has the most distinct memory of deja vu, as if this has happened before.

In his mind, he hears an echoing man’s voice, telling him that this is simply part of being a prince and that if he moves too suddenly, he’ll simply be a prince with no ear, but still a prince. In that odd memory, he swears he remembers someone watching -- a boy? The boy has eyes like Nicky’s, that are stormy and mysterious and soft. Soon, the scissors are replaced by a razor, and Joe sits _extra_ still to avoid his ears being lopped off.

It’s just an imaginative little trick of his mind, though, isn’t it?

“Not as easy as that, but if we do our jobs properly, it will seem that way,” Andy assures. “First, we make contact with Quynh. Then we go from there. If you pick up the lessons quickly, it will be easy. If not, then maybe your grandmother won’t recognize the orphan for the prince because twenty-two years away has washed away all princely trappings.”

Joe takes a deep breath to clear any fears or strange memories from the past, glad his eyes are closed as he feels the warm brush of Nicky’s fingers over his newly bare cheeks. “Almost done,” Nicky mumbles, setting the razor down.

Joe dares a peek with one eye open to see Nicky sliding oil through his fingers, stepping in between Joe’s legs so he can address the wild curls.

The train jumps suddenly, sending Nicky stumbling forward. 

One hand tangles in his hair and grips hard, the other at his shoulder, but what the train’s sudden movement has done that’s most oppressive is pressed Nicky’s hips flush against Joe’s. For a moment, they’re stunned and stuck, but then Nicky leaps back, forgetting his hand is still in Joe’s hair.

“Ow! Fuck!” he hisses, yelping as he reaches up. “Do you make princes bald, as well, when you’re preparing them?”

“Ease off, Nicky,” Andy steps in, though Nicky’s mouth is open like he intends to snap right back at him. “Joe looks the part, other than the clothes. We’ve got the rest of the day to worry about that, I think we should move into our etiquette and history lessons. Go get the tea.”

Something changes in Nicky.

It’s the order, Joe thinks. Suddenly, his posture goes straight and he drops his chin to his chest in a subservient nod. He goes hushed and doesn’t say a word, even though he’s been quick to retort smartly anytime Joe has something to say. 

“Of course,” he allows and steps out, giving Joe and Andy a moment alone.

She digs into her bag to fetch several cards and notebooks, eyeing Joe the whole time. “I thought you could use a moment,” she admits. “He could too, but he’s too stubborn to admit it.” 

Joe lets his gaze drift to the window of the compartment. “Why does he care so much?”

Andy shuffles the cards, looking like she’s debating what she wants to say. 

“It’s important to him to reunite Prince Yusuf with his grandmother.”

That seems strange. “Why?” Joe asks, doing the math in his head. “Nicky can’t have been much more than a boy when it all happened.”

“He worked at the palace,” Andy shares. “He’s never shared that many details with me, but I think the night that things went badly, he feels guilty that he couldn’t do more to help the family. He thinks that if he can do one more good thing for the capital, one more good thing for the family, one more good thing for those in need, it’ll make up for that night.” She shuffles the cards, then pauses, giving Joe a pointed look. “I didn’t tell you any of this.”

Joe nods dutifully, his gaze sliding towards the door.

If Nicky worked in the palace and Joe’s the lost prince, did they know one another? He strains to recall a memory from before that dark curtain closed in over his life, but just like every other time, it’s useless.

Nothing comes to him that seems concrete and solid, nothing real.

If he did know Nicky, then it’s as lost as the rest. “What’s all this, then?” he asks, choosing to focus on what Andy has laid out for him, which looks like a daunting set of rules from an old charter, family crests, and what appears to be notes on how to be a _proper_ royal.

“History,” she replies calmly. “Yours. By the time we get off this train, you need to know this. _All_ of it.”

Joe stares at the multitude of cards and notebooks on the table, then at all the ones that Andy hasn’t even brought out yet. Sighing, he inches forward and wrings his cap in his hands, unable to help the way he scratches at his bare cheek, starting to feel like a complete stranger. 

That’s the point, isn’t it? 

By the time Nicky returns, he and Andy have begun going through the cards, which go into the finer details of the Maghreb history, its government, and royal protocol. “Good,” Andy says, gesturing for Nicky to set the tea tray down. “Joe, you’re in luck. You get a break from facts.”

Even though they’ve only been doing this for twenty minutes, it’s still about nineteen minutes too many. It earns a sigh of relief as Joe shoves a biscuit into his mouth, reaching for a cup of tea with both hands. He slurps it up, which earns a distasteful look from Nicky, but his patience is shot.

“ _What_?” he demands.

“I see you didn’t start with manners yet,” is Nicky’s snide comment to Andy. “You’re sipping the tea incorrectly,” he says offhand when Joe keeps drinking it with two hands like some kind of bowl of soup.

It’s the wrong thing to say given that Joe has had his beard shaved off, been given a false name that doesn’t belong to him, and all this history has made his head hurt. The last thing he needs is some rude Genovese asshole telling him how to drink his tea.

Archly, Joe regards Nicky with an irritated look. “I’m royalty to you, aren’t I? You think that I’m Prince Yusuf?” he challenges. 

Nicky looks like he’s biting his tongue, clearly trying not to snap back at him. “Yes,” he grits out. Joe glances to the side, pleased that Andy looks so amused by this, and allowing it to fuel his sass. 

“Then you don’t get to tell me how to do things.” 

Joe beams with delight when that seems to shut Nicky up. Andy settles back in her corner, making a little tick mark in her journal. He knows that his smug victory over Nicky is short-lived (who knows what grooming terror is coming next), but he intends to enjoy it for now.

“While you shape his manners with rude comments that’ll earn you a knife in your gut tonight, let’s continue with history,” Andy advises, pulling out a family tree. “Ready, Joe?”

He’d signed up for this, hadn’t he?

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

* * *

Nicky’s guilty conscience is rearing its ugly head again, making it so that he can’t sleep.

It would be nice if he thought he could turn it off, but unfortunately there’s nothing that Nicky can do about it. The insomnia is a bearable ill, something that he can make do with. Besides, it’ll give him more time to prepare all the documents that Joe will need to study if he’s to be their Prince Yusuf.

_You are taking advantage of a poor amnesiac who only wants to find family_ , says the little voice in his head that he hates so much. It is his morality playing with him. Never mind that giving Joe a grandmother will result in countless children having a better life, he will be reuniting a family -- even if it’s not _real_.

What does it matter if Joe isn’t actually Prince Yusuf?

Nicky sighs as he stretches out, watching Andy snoring on the bed as the train moves along. He wishes that he could be like her, able to compartmentalize the job, but he isn’t. Once she’d met Joe, she had instantly been on board, smoothly lying to him as if it didn’t cause her distress. It probably doesn’t, at least, not the way it does with Nicky. 

Tea will help to calm his mind, he thinks.

Nicky quietly exits the train car, hoping that someone is still working in the dining car. He peeks into the window of Joe’s single-passenger sleeping car on his way, but there’s no one inside and the door sits slightly ajar. 

“ _Cazzo_ ,” he hisses, wondering if Joe’s decided to screw them over by abandoning them in the middle of the night. That asshole. He keeps moving down the hall with determined strides, intent to double-back to the dining car on the off chance that Joe has gone in that direction when he collides with a solid mass that sends him tumbling back to the ground. Gaping, he’s shocked to see Joe standing there looking dazed.

“What are you doing up? I was looking for you,” Nicky says, sighing with relief as he sways with the train, pushing up to his feet to get a hand on Joe’s back to try and coax him back to his compartment.

Joe doesn’t move at all.

In fact, that dazed look on his face hasn’t shifted. Nicky waves a hand in front of him, but there’s no reaction. “Joe,” Nicky murmurs, softer than before. “You’re sleepwalking, aren’t you?”

“Mameti, please,” Joe murmurs. “Don’t go without me. Not this time.”

Nicky’s expression shifts, knowing that he is staring at Joe with a fond tenderness that he doesn’t deserve during the day when he’s being a little shit. At night, asleep, calling out for his grandmother, he earns all of Nicky’s sympathy. He shifts his hand to the small of Joe’s back, gently sliding his fingers around his wrist to start guiding him back to the compartment. 

Even though Joe is an orphan and not the actual Prince Yusuf, Nicky can’t help feeling a strange sense of deja vu of the night he’d secreted Yusuf to safety with a hand wrapped around Yusuf’s. He can feel his hand tightening on Joe’s, which is his fatal mistake.

Joe yelps at the sudden pressure, waking from his dream.

“Why are you holding onto me?” Joe demands. 

“Because I’m supposed to protect you!” It’s instinct that has Nicky snapping at him, feeling like that eight-year-old boy again, only this time, it’s not the prince. It doesn’t matter. He’s not losing anyone again, not like he’d lost Yusuf that night. 

Who knows how different the world might be if Nicky had only held on a little tighter? 

“Do you sleepwalk often?” Nicky asks, wishing that Joe had mentioned this _before_ he got himself lost on a train. 

“I haven’t in years,” Joe admits. “One more thing I don’t know about my childhood. Unfortunately, eleven-year-old orphans aren’t left with notes pinned to their too-small coats with their histories. I should speak to someone about that.”

That gets a small snort of amusement from Nicky, who guides him back into his room. 

“Well, you are safe now,” he advises. “You should get some rest. We’ll be arriving at the port tomorrow afternoon and if I know Andy, you have a long day of learning ahead of you. I saw her preparing the family trees,” he informs Joe, with all the due gravity that comes from having to learn centuries of ancestors in one go.

Joe doesn’t protest. In fact, he’s oddly quiet in a way that unnerves Nicky. Once more, his guilty conscience begins to play up. He has been unable to ignore the thought that if the Empress rejects Joe, then he will have ruined the life of this poor young man, all in his quest to help others. If he is rejected, then Nicky himself will have his reputation on the line and no one will see any better life for it.

It is no wonder that sleep has been very difficult to come by. He can’t shut up either his conscience _or_ his worries.

Nicky is glad to be able to focus on helping Joe back into the rumpled sheets of the bed, turning out the lights. “I can tell you’re tired,” Nicky quips. “You don’t even have a sharp word for me.” Though he’s only known Joe for days, he can already tell that the absence of such a comment is evidence of his exhaustion.

Maybe it’s for the best. He will fall asleep and then they can return to their preparation with fresh eyes tomorrow. 

“Wait,” Joe says, when Nicky’s hand is on the latch to leave. 

Nicky turns, not sure what to expect. Joe’s quiet mood has completely thrown him off guard, and now he doesn’t know what might be coming.

“We’re on a moving train and I can’t rule out that I won’t sleepwalk again,” Joe says, grabbing his pillow and kneading it with his fingers. “Will you stay with me? I need a blockade between me and the door, to make sure I don’t just unlock it and end up jumping off a train in the middle of the night.” 

_Oh_.

“Me?” Nicky manages, even if the sound is more of a surprised exhalation than anything else. “Are you sure?”

“You’re here. I have the feeling if I wake up Andy, she might take those scissors from earlier and deliver a one-eyed prince to the Empress,” he deadpans. “Unless you’d like me to go find a porter and ask them to protect me?”

“No,” Nicky replies, _too_ quickly. “No,” he repeats, calmer. “I can do it.”

The only light in the cabin now is the moonlight that comes in from the gap between the shade and the window. Nicky carefully navigates his way back to the bed, removing his shoes as he sits on the edge. Slowly, he lies with his back to Joe, glad that he doesn’t have to face him. 

He’s only there to prevent their erstwhile fake-prince from accidentally walking right off a train. 

The warmth of Joe’s body at his back, the questing fingers that brush against his sides and gently wrap up in the fabric of his shirt mean nothing. Nicky’s aching loneliness for something romantic, something more, has been constantly shoved aside out of a need to do good, and he’s always had Andy.

Why is it, then, that he suddenly feels as if there’s been a gap inside of him this whole time and it’s only with Joe so near that he begins to understand what it is?

(He knows why)

There is no time for it. It doesn’t matter if he can identify why he feels this way. Nicky’s own personal needs are secondary to what he’s here to do. He is here to protect Joe on his way to Malta, teach him what he needs to know, sell their story to get the money, and then vanish to do good with it.

That’s it. 

The warmth of Joe’s body, the familiar smell of him as he curls in with Nicky, the soft breath on the back of Nicky’s neck -- these are all things that he cannot afford to think about. Nicky closes his eyes, forcing himself to think of the task at hand and nothing else. 

Protect Joe. 

With that in mind, it’s easy for him to compartmentalize the rest. He’d failed to protect Yusuf all those years ago. He will not fail this time with a new man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, comments are adored! We'll be off towards the boat in the journey in the next chapter!


	4. Chapter 3

The sun wakes Nicky before the conductor does. It’s a small mercy, given how he’d fallen asleep. It’s one thing to have promised Joe he’d stay to guard him from any sleepwalking mishaps. It’s another to have placed himself between Joe and the door, in a position where Joe had taken Nicky’s body as an invitation to plaster his body to his in the middle of the night.

The train is moving slowly, but every jolt and jump makes Joe wrap his arms tighter around Nicky. His nose is pressed against Nicky’s skin, his lips soft and warm. His lightly stubbled cheek rubs against the nape of Nicky’s neck, and his knee is pressed between Nicky’s legs.

Maybe at the orphanage there had been a lack of beds.

He could be using Nicky as a substitute for a security blanket?

This could just be how Joe sleeps. 

Whatever the reason, it’s torture, that’s what it is. 

Other than Andy, Nicky hasn’t had anyone to keep him warm for some time. When he’d been eighteen and scrounging for coins, he’d allowed himself to fall for the most tolerable men he could find with the warmest beds. Emotions had never factored into it -- only survival. Andy also doesn’t curl in with him like this, which is a shame, because it’s what Nicky adores most.

He feels safe and warm and protected, as if he could weather any storm so long as he’s right here in Joe’s arms. 

That’s a problem, given that Joe is an orphan that Nicky is lying to and using to get a share of the reward money. He needs to get out of here, before this can get even more complicated. He shifts out of Joe’s arms, grateful when Joe releases him. In the absence of his body’s warmth, he reaches for a pillow to replace Nicky, giving him an escape. Reaching for his grey fisherman’s sweater, Nicky yanks it on, watching Joe the whole time as he debates whether he should wake him.

If he does, then he’ll have to explain why he’d allowed Joe to press against him like that, won’t he?

While there’s a perfectly logical explanation, Nicky finds he’d rather not (the flush in his cheeks alone might give up secrets Nicky is unprepared to yield). Sliding his shoes back on, Nicky cautiously unlatches the door and creeps back to the other compartment, wincing when he discovers that his luck has run out.

Andy is already awake and eating breakfast, and obviously, has noticed that Nicky did not come back last night. 

“And where were you?” Andy asks, cup of coffee in hand.

Nicky is glad to know she will at least be in a good mood since she’s had her coffee. He rubs at his eyes, still thick with sleep from the excellent rest he’s just woken from. “I woke up in the middle of the night to find Joe’s cabin empty. He sleepwalks,” he complains. “I brought him back, but he asked me to stay with him so he wouldn’t end up on the train tracks. I thought it was a smart idea to protect our investment.”

Andy stares him down, but Nicky doesn’t flinch. 

He knows it’s a good reason, and she does too. 

“I don’t want to talk about it, Andy.”

She hums thoughtfully and sips at her coffee. “Good,” she says. “I wouldn’t want to have a conversation with you that the last person in the world that you need to be doing anything with is our asset. We deliver him to the Empress, we get our money. You go help needy children, I’ll be staying with Quynh in Malta doing unspeakable things that would have children scarred for life. You can do whatever you like with that loneliness of yours after, but you have to keep this in check until we’re done. When we are, then you can ask him out,” she says, as if it’s as simple as that. “It saves Quynh and I the trouble of finding someone for you.”

Nicky scowls as he picks at the scone on her plate. “He’s not even that handsome,” he mutters.

“Oh,” Andy scoffs, “Yes, he is.”

She’s right. He is.

Nicky’s grimace only gets worse as he collapses at her side, pressing his shoulder to hers as he deliberately and viciously pries raisins from a scone to eat in silence as his mind thinks about what it had been like to wake in someone else’s arms. 

That warm fantasy is disturbed at the sound of the compartment door sliding open, Joe standing there sleepily and yawning as he rubs his eyes. “Breakfast?” he mumbles, shuffling in and sitting opposite them in only his striped pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt. He’s no longer half the mess as he’d been yesterday prior to the trim of both beard and hair, but his sleepiness creates the picture of...well, a thoroughly fuckable, yet somehow also adorable man.

No feelings, Nicky, he tells himself. Focus on the job.

Andy gestures to the food before them, excusing herself to go check on their destination. If they’re on time, they’ll be arriving by mid afternoon, which means she has plenty of time to educate Joe on the finer details of his past. 

“How did you sleep?” Nicky hears himself asking.

His voice is clearly a traitor, because he’s not supposed to care. Even if he does care, he’s absolutely not supposed to remind himself of what it had felt like to be wrapped up in another person’s arms. Andy is good to sleep with, but she is like a log. In all his life, he doesn’t think he’s ever been spooned like that.

“I didn’t sleepwalk, so I’d say it was a success,” Joe praises, mouth full of flaky croissant, which is currently creating a disaster of fallen flaky soldiers on his lips.

Nicky can’t help his distressed look at the lack of manners, no matter what instinctual feelings of lust he’s begun to have.

Scowling, Joe grabs at a napkin to wipe it away. “You look as if I’ve run you through with a sword,” he complains. “I’m starved and this is better food than Booker ever gave us.” Nicky’s brow must furrow in confusion, because Joe keeps going. “Sebastien Le Livre. Booker. He’s the old man who took me in. Well, not old at the time. He was forty-two when I arrived, with three kids. Now he’s a grandfather a few times over and says I’m going to kill him with a heart attack.”

“So it will be a double homicide,” Nicky deadpans. “Given that your lack of manners is soon to kill me too.”

“Very funny,” Joe quips, pouring himself coffee. Once he has a full cup, he leans back to savour it, something else Nicky needs to _not_ stare at. 

Now that passengers are waking for the day, the train is picking up speed to get to the coast, which is fine by Nicky. The sooner they arrive, the sooner they get the boat ride over with. He is _very much_ not looking forward to that. 

“I slept well,” Nicky says, responding to his own question. “You may be crude, ill-mannered, and slow to learn family histories, but…” He can see Joe winding himself up to defend himself, so Nicky hurries to finish his thought. “You are a very good companion to keep a man warm.”

Joe says nothing, but he keeps picking apart his croissant, which makes it flake to the ground. He is truly testing Nicky’s patience, but this is not his floor to clean, so he says nothing. He does, however, press his nails into his thigh to stop from snapping. Instead, he asks a question that’s been on his mind since he first ran into Joe.

“Why didn’t you want to stay at the orphanage?”

“I’m thirty-three,” Joe points out. “I taught for a few years, but the truth is, I have bigger dreams. I want to see what’s out there, see if there’s anything left of my family, and...I can’t explain it, but I’ve been drawn to Malta. Always.”

“Probably because your grandmother is there,” Nicky lies effortlessly.

“Maybe,” Joe says considerately, sipping his coffee. He’s leaning forward to grab a piece of fruit, using the tip of the banana to point at Nicky. “What about you? Where are your parents?”

It’s the wrong question to ask. “Dead,” he says, shutting down. His expression goes cold, his face flat, and he knows that there is nothing more he wants to say about that. He did not have an orphanage or a Booker to take him in. 

He had the streets and eventually Andy, but it had been a cruel life. It’s one that he wants no child to have to experience and it’s why it’s so important to get the money.

“Nicky, I…”

He’s on his feet, smoothing his clothes rapidly. “I’ll fetch Andy so you can start your lesson,” he says, and his words are still hollow and lacking emotion. It may have been twenty-two years since he lost his parents, but the wound has felt as if it never quite healed. He doesn’t want to sit here in a train cabin with Joe and bleed dry from grief, not again. Not now. 

“Nicky,” Joe protests.

Nicky does the wrong thing. He looks at the hurt on Joe’s face and he nearly crumples. What would it do to discuss this with him, though? It would do nothing. He would only hurt more, and they’re going to have to address that fateful night eventually when Nicky gives Joe the story of his great and grand escape, that false-liberation of Prince Yusuf to the world. 

Still, the wide eyes, the way Joe’s lips have curved down in displeasure, and the way he looks actively _hurt_ by Nicky’s reaction is enough to soften him. “I don’t want to talk about it,” is all he says. “And you have plenty of learning to do. Andy is going to go over childhood hobbies and education today. We meet with the Empress’ woman in two days. It’s a lot to learn.”

Nicky is only thinking of support and encouragement when he reaches over to squeeze Joe’s shoulder. 

His thumb brushes against the smooth skin near his collarbone, and for an instant, Nicky is swept away in how warm Joe feels. His body leans towards him, seeking it out as if last night had not been enough. Stubbornly, he reminds himself that two days also applies to him. There is much to prepare and he needs to pack for their transition to the boat.

Luckily for him, Andy has returned with a pad of paper, pens, and several books.

“Class is in session,” she informs Joe. “Out,” she orders Nicky. 

She has no idea how timely she is, and Andy probably also has no idea why he murmurs a soft, _grazie_ to her on the way out. Or maybe she does know. Given the way her lips are soft, how she’s looking at him protectively, he starts to wonder how long she’s been standing at the door and waiting for a chance to enter. 

Her chosen timing, as ever, is perfect.

Nicky excuses himself and heads to the dining car to have another cup of coffee, pacing up and down the line of train cars to try and shake that hurt expression from his memory. He hadn’t meant to hurt Joe, he hadn’t meant to do anything like that, but he still had -- all because his past is a shadowy and twisted thing, one that he’s been eager to run from.

He’d shed Nicolo di Genova like a snake’s skin, becoming Nicky Smith. Ignoring the past had been easier than dealing with it, but he should have expected it, taking this job. Shifting over to his satchel, Nicky unearths the music box. It’s singed and damaged and locked, but it’s still in fine shape.

He just hasn’t figured out a way of opening it yet, but the chaos of the night is a perfect excuse for why the key has been lost. Joe will be able to present this to the Empress as part of his proof and it should help with their plan.

Nicky taps it a few times with his fingers, losing himself in thought as he digs out his notebook to make a list of things he will do once he has the money. It’s a good way to ground himself and centre his thoughts. 

The time slips away from him, so much so that it takes a passing conductor to startle him into action. “We’ll be at our final destination in just under thirty minutes, the dining car is now closing. Please proceed to your cabins and prepare to disembark,” he announces, moving down the car to make the same announcement.

Nicky quickly tucks the music box away into his bag, folding up his list into four even folds, putting it on top. On the way back to Joe and Andy, he’s a salmon upstream, fighting against the crowd of people going the other way. 

He finally makes it, though, and hesitates outside the door, not wanting to interrupt the conversation.

“Nicky is so sure that I’m the Prince, so why can’t I remember any of this?” Joe is complaining, his words sharp even though he’s clearly angry at only himself.

“The truth?”

 _No, no, no, Andy, not the truth_ , thinks Nicky.

“Always.”

“I think that you were a child and something terrible happened to you a long time ago. Maybe you were injured, or maybe it was so terrible that you don’t _want_ to remember.”

“It’s my family!”

“Exactly,” Andy says sharply. “Who’d want to remember the night they lost their parents? You’ve seen how Nicky clams up when it comes up. Maybe forgetting is a luxury. Maybe it’s a kindness, even if it comes with its own pain. Besides, we’re bringing you to your grandmother,” she says, lying smoothly as ever. “You’ll get your family back.”

There’s a lull in their conversation, which gives Nicky enough time to rap his knuckles on the door to give fair warning before he ducks back into the cabin. As he does, the train whistle goes off, signalling his news. “We’re here,” he informs them. “I’ll start packing the bags in your cabin, Joe. You stay,” he says, when Joe gets up to help. “Given the sour look on your face, I don’t think Andy has managed all your manners yet.”

He leaves Joe sputtering in his wake, but Nicky thinks that at least he’s not thinking about his family or his memory gaps anymore. 

If Nicky’s reputation must pay the price for Joe’s mood, he thinks he’s willing to bear it.

* * *

They trade the train for a boat, which will bring them one step closer to Valletta and to Quynh. It is the next stage of their journey, though not one that Nicky is looking forward to. He knows this is a necessary step, but still he looks at the boat as his doom and not their safe journey forward.

“Does he always look this green?” Joe asks Andy, as they join the other passengers on the ship, with Nicky in the rear with the luggage.

“You better hope for smooth sailing or Nicky’s going to be a bear.”

Nicky would snap at them for being cruel, but he’s too busy worrying about the same thing. He hasn’t been on a boat in some time, but the last experience had left lasting scars. He tightens his grip on the luggage, grimacing as he looks at the boat, telling himself that it’s only an overnight journey. 

By morning, they will have arrived in Malta. That is what he keeps repeating to himself.

“Take Joe to get changed,” Nicky instructs. 

“Why? Do you not like the orphanage chic?” Joe deadpans, gesturing to his ill-fitting brown trousers and the striped shirt that’s clearly lost all the starch in its collar and most of its original colour. 

It’s not like Nicky’s fare is much better, but he hadn’t cashed in all his favours to get new clothes, only for his Prince Yusuf not to wear them. “Andy needs to take you through the dances. You should be wearing proper clothes, proper shoes.” 

Joe groans and as Nicky wanders away, he hears his voice at the periphery of his hearing. “Dancing?” he’s complaining. “Really?”

“Princes can dance effortlessly,” Andy replies with great amusement. “Don’t worry. I’m an excellent teacher. If we encounter waves, it’ll only serve to help establish your balance,” she says, as Nicky shifts the smaller suitcase forward so Joe can take it. 

“And what are you going to do?” Joe asks, his fingers brushing Nicky’s on the handle of the suitcase as he leans in to take it.

“I will be trying,” he says, steadily, “very hard, not to be sick all over the ship.” 

“I’m sure I could help more with that than with the dancing,” is Joe’s desperate attempt to get out of it. Nicky only tightens his grip on the luggage to push it forward, leaving Joe with an instructive look that tells him to go get changed and prepare himself for the reckoning that is dancing with Andy.

“Fine,” Joe sighs, and takes the suitcase down towards the cabin.

Nicky waits until he’s out of earshot to glance back at Andy, handing her the key to their shared room. “Please don’t break him.”

“Why?” Andy replies calmly. “Worried that you won’t have anyone to curl up with tonight?”

Nicky scowls and continues his way forward on the ship, trying to ignore the way the propellers are beginning to churn the water beneath them. He doesn’t run into Joe on his way to the cabin, but he hears the door next to his close, which means that Joe is up to Andy on the deck, about to learn waltzes and foxtrots and quicksteps. Maybe, if Andy is truly feeling like sharing her talents, Joe will even be suckered into a tango.

He’s seen Andy and Quynh perform more than one tango in his life, and they always leave him feeling unbearably lonely. If there is to be tango on Joe’s list of lessons, Nicky would like to avoid being there for it.

There’s an emotion he suspects it will dredge up, but it’s one that he’s hesitant to give a name to. 

Nicky doesn’t do much unpacking. They’ll be off the ship by noon tomorrow, but he manages to take out the documents they’ll need and his notebook. He settles into the reading chair to make notes on their plans and details out the night of the escape, knowing that he will need to explain it all to Joe very soon. Drawing out his folded list, he takes a moment to study it again as the ship begins to depart. He thinks of the children in need, the programs he will be able to fund, and the hungry mouths that will eat when they couldn’t before. 

At least, he tries to.

Every time he tries to think about them, his mind clouds with a vision of Joe’s smiling face. Strangely, all the good they can do is eclipsed by the thought of making Joe happy with a grandmother that doesn’t belong to him.

Who has to know, though?

The Empress can buy into their lie, and she will have a grandson. Then, Joe will be _happy_. It’s funny how in only a few short days, Nicky’s purpose has somehow careened around to wanting that more than anything. 

Speaking of Joe, he thinks he should go up top and see if they’re making any progress. It’s been nearly two hours since he left them. He passes a few lounging passengers on the deck, heading to the bow of the ship. 

There, he finds them ensconced in what appears to be a waltz. 

“Nicky,” Andy summons him the moment she sees him. 

She is twirling with Joe in the sunset light and for a moment, Nicky can’t breathe. Joe is a vision, radiant in golden colours in his crisp blue striped button-down shirt, the first few buttons popped open with a pair of sharp black suspenders on his chest. That sits above a pair of snug linen trousers and sleek shiny shoes. 

Nicky had bought these clothes, yet had not stopped to think how they would come to life on Joe -- how the suspenders would expand with every breath that fills Joe’s chest, how the buttons would threaten to come apart because Nicky had given Andy a size just a shade too small, and how the pants are in an equally impressively strained state. “Come here, take over for me.”

Andy has certainly worked her magic with selecting clothes for Joe’s new wardrobe. Hopefully, she has done the same with his dancing skills.

Nicky finally remembers himself and steps forward, offering Joe a closer inspection now that he’s here. With his face bare of anything but the smallest layer of stubble, his curls seem to be the focus, shining in the sunlight. 

Then, it hits him. “Wait,” he says, turning to watch Andy walking away. “Take over from what?”

“She said you’d waltz with me so she could fetch us some dinner. I’m not a very good prince without my memory, I guess,” Joe admits. “I’m sure I remember music and dancing from somewhere, but I stepped on her toes about ten times. I’m sure she’s thrilled to get to subject you to the same fate and get a break.”

“Oh,” says Nicky, swallowing nervously. “I’m not any good at dancing either.”

“She mentioned,” Joe admits, holding out his hands to Nicky. “I need practice. Is a prince really a prince if he can’t waltz?” 

Nicky’s heart rapidly pounds in his chest. It’s been twenty-two years since Prince Yusuf took him in his arms and then boasted that he would have princesses a-plenty to dance with when he was older. Though an adult now, Nicky has never stopped imagining what it might have been like to grow up alongside Yusuf, to have him take him into his arms and dance together in a slow twirl around the room.

This will have to be the next best thing.

“I…”

Joe stares at him, almost confused. “Nicky,” he begins, fond and amused. “Do you even know how to dance?”

“I never had cause to learn,” he admits, as Joe takes his hands and pulls him forward. 

“Andy didn’t try and teach you?”

“Oh, Andy tried,” Nicky guarantees with a soft huff of laughter. “I have been too stubborn to allow it to happen.”

There’s a mirth in Joe’s eyes, a sparkle that Nicky is entranced by. He leans in to hear what he has to say, almost like he has to capture the words. “You?” he whispers. “Stubborn?” He even winks at Nicky, the menace. “I don’t believe it,” he deadpans, the sarcasm rife in his words. 

Nicky doesn’t even think to check whether Andy has returned. It’s as if the world has shrunk to only Joe in front of him, as if no one else exists. This man is incandescently beautiful in ways that Nicky did not think other human beings could be. 

Looking like this, dancing like this, as charming as he is, Joe has _become_ Prince Yusuf in such a natural way that Nicky no longer worries about the Empress not believing him. 

In fact, the real trouble is Nicky having to remind himself that this is not Prince Yusuf at all, but Joe Jones. 

The spell is suddenly broken when a sudden flare of pain shoots through Nicky. “ _Santa maria, madre de dio_ ,” he curses. “My foot!” he yelps, because Joe’s gone and stepped on it. Instantly, he feels like that eight-year-old boy again, lashing out. “Who’s going to want to dance with you if you step on people’s toes?” he gripes.

“Handsomer people than you,” is Joe’s sudden retort, almost like he’s reciting by memory. “Princesses dance with princes, don’t they?”

It’s an old insecurity, but Joe’s not wrong.

Princes don’t dance with kitchen boys or girls. They certainly wouldn’t dance with Nicky.

The spell broken, Nicky lets go of Joe’s hands and drifts back. “He’s suitable,” he tells Andy, who’s returned with several trays laden with food. “I am feeling sick, suddenly,” he lies, given that their crossing has been smooth so far and given him no trouble.

Though maybe it is not entirely a lie. 

He does feel somewhat ill, and it rests with the truth that Nicky has been ignoring for how it makes him feel. That pit in his stomach is an ache as true as any when he thinks about the fact that when this is all done, this handsome and charming and witty man is going to go off and live a royal’s life. Anything that Nicky does feel is useless.

Joe will not be the answer to his loneliness. 

“Nicky!”

He doesn’t turn around, knowing that if he does, he runs the risk of abandoning his best judgment and letting himself give in to selfish desires when they are here to do so much more. Instead, he keeps moving under the guise of seasickness, down to the rooms within the ship, where he is glad the doors lock and that Andy will keep Joe occupied well through supper. 

That night, Nicky waits for Joe to request for him to sleep with him again.

It never comes.

His fear of Joe sleepwalking must show on his face when Andy returns to the room, clad in a pair of flannel trousers and one of Nicky’s long shirts. “We put a door stopper on the outside,” she explains, locking the door behind her. “Joe thought it would be cruel to ask you to help with his problem when you’re feeling so sick.”

Guilt roils within Nicky and he tries very hard not to tell Andy the depth of his problem.

“Good,” he says, mustering a smile. “I will be fine when we arrive on dry land. You know me and the sea.”

Andy stares at him critically for a very long moment, which is all that Nicky needs to know that she _knows_ he’s not being honest. Being the very good friend she is, she only lifts up the covers and slides into the bed with Nicky, facing opposite him and very deliberately _not asking_ about why he’s lying. 

It is a kindness he isn’t sure he deserves. 

“When you do feel better on dry land,” Andy finally speaks, once the lights have been doused and they sail on towards Malta, “You should make sure Joe doesn’t think it’s his fault. The last thing we need is our false prince running from us because of your moods.”

She’s not wrong.

Chastened, Nicky bows his head with a nod, even if Andy cannot see it. “I promise,” he vows. Even if he is trying to prevent his heart from making too deep an attachment, her words have merit. They are so close, it would be a shame if Nicky ruined it now. He can do this, for a few more days. 

What’s a little heartbreak and envy when he knows there is a payday coming?

* * *

The air in Malta is different than it is on the other side of the strait. 

Joe breathes it in, searching for some sort of satisfaction in it. He’s here. This has long been his dream to achieve and he’s finally _here_. He feels as if he should be experiencing something, but he finds to his dismay that their arrival only brings with it worry and confusion and fear.

What if the Empress doesn’t recognize him?

What if she sends him away?

What if this is all a mistake? 

These are the kinds of thoughts he’s not supposed to have, so he quickly shuttles them to the back of his mind to focus on what he’s doing in the here and now. Though, exactly what that happens to be is still something of a mystery. Joe ducks inside from the hotel balcony, momentarily done breathing in the Maltese air. 

“What happens now?” Joe calls over to Nicky, who’s in the second of their connected hotel rooms. 

Nicky stands once he’s done pushing the luggage into the room, brushing his hands off on his trousers. Joe does his best not to stare, but Nicky must be as tight with money as Joe is, because his clothes never fit him properly. They’re always too big (like his coats) or too small and short (like his trousers and his shirts). The pinstriped pants he’s wearing now cling to his ass as he leans over to slide the luggage under the bed. He seems to be more amenable, though on the ship he’d been cool and hadn’t dared to look Joe in the eye the entire time they disembarked. Whatever had been annoying him has passed, though, because now Nicky seems perfectly polite, if slightly withdrawn. Maybe it had been the sea making him ill, as he’d said.

“Andy is already gone, I’m sure you’ve noticed. The moment we arrived in Malta, she left to see Quynh, her girlfriend and partner. She’ll be arranging an audience to assess you before deciding whether to present you to the Empress.”

Joe gapes at Nicky, not having expected the partner to be a _girlfriend_. Clearly, the reaction takes Nicky aback.

“Is that a problem?” Nicky asks darkly. “I would like to hope that our prince would be progressively minded.”

“Why do you always do that?” Joe demands. “You jump to conclusions and assume the worst of me.”

Nicky drops the last of the bags, glaring at him. “That’s not an answer.”

“It would be very hypocritical for me to have an opinion on Andy having a partner of the same sex when I find myself drawn to men, predominantly,” Joe retorts, glad that his words are frosty as he stares Nicky down. 

That freezes Nicky in his place, a reaction that gets Joe feeling very smug.

“Oh, I didn’t, I…” 

He’s doing it again, that stammering that he does when he’s been caught off-guard. He’d done it earlier, when they had been dancing, and he’s doing it now. His cheeks turn red and in his flustered panic, his hands do what they frequently seem to enjoy, which is disheveling his hair as he attempts to fix some unseen problem.

It’s _adorable_ and Joe would be lying if he said he doesn’t try and make it happen. 

Finally, Joe decides to give Nicky a break. 

“Tomorrow, I go and see Quynh. What about tonight?”

Nicky stops at the door, his fingers tapping on the frame, before he turns around. “What do you mean?”

“Are you honestly saying that I should stay inside a hotel room when I’m in Malta? I’ve dreamed of being here for most of my life.” It’s barely even mid-afternoon. He understands that he needs to do some preparation and studying, but that’s not going to keep him inside the whole time. 

Joe rounds the bed, using one of the pillars of the four-poster bed to wind his way closer to Nicky, ready to plead if he has to.

“Joe,” Nicky protests weakly, standing his ground.

“We’re going to need to eat dinner, and wouldn’t it be good for me to know what Valletta is like? If the Empress lives here, then surely Prince Yusuf would have a basic understanding of the city,” he reasons, lifting his chin to add that extra royal flair he thinks will truly sell this. “I’d hate for the Empress to be less than convinced because you couldn’t take me out for dinner, Nicolò.”

Whatever reaction Joe is expecting, the way Nicky goes pale is not it.

“What did you call me?” he exhales, as if he’s been punched.

Joe tracks it back, not remembering. “Nicky,” he says. It must have been. It’s the only name he knows for him. “Are you going to take me out to dinner or not?”

There’s that flustered reaction again, only this time, Joe hasn’t done anything to cause it. 

It eventually fades and Nicky slides his hands into his pockets, looking almost surprised by what he says next. “Thirty minutes, and then we’ll go out?” he suggests. Joe’s grin only multiplies in brightness, having gotten his way and earned himself a dinner out in Malta.

If Booker could see him now, he wouldn’t believe his eyes. 

“Thirty minutes,” he agrees with delight, heading into his room to search for appropriate clothes to wear for a night out. 

Joe rifles through the new wardrobe, coming up with a soft-looking navy blue sweater and a pair of khaki pants and leather boots to go with it. He’s quick to change, checking his reflection in the mirror and feeling utterly, devastatingly, perfectly handsome. 

With luck, he’ll be able to get Nicky sputtering again in no time. 

“Nicky!” he calls out to him, closing the hotel door behind him as he slides on the suede jacket, tucking away the few dollars he has in his pockets. “I’m rea…dy.”

His voice trails off as he sees Nicky locking up his room, looking like he’d known Joe would be trying to look handsome and that his game would be to one-up him.

It shouldn’t look so good. It’s just a plain white button-down and a pair of black trousers, but the cardigan he’s wearing is grey-blue, and looks so soft that Joe wants to wrap himself up in it. Nicky’s hair falls in his face, forcing him to push a hand through it to try and fix it, but it only makes it worse.

For one long moment, Joe lets himself stare.

He slides in, tucking that pest of a hair strand out of his eyes, leaning against the wall beside Nicky’s room. “I hope you’ve made suitable reservations for a prince,” Joe says, as haughty and as assholish as he can muster. 

“We only just arrived, there are no reservations,” Nicky says, draping a burgundy scarf around Joe’s neck. “Let’s explore and be adventurous and choose the first thing that speaks to us. Yes?” he encourages, eyes bright with mischief. 

It’s definitely enough to sweep Joe up in its current. “Yes.”

That’s how they find themselves wandering down the streets of the capital, shoulders brushing. They ignore the first three restaurants, are turned down at the next two because of how busy they are, and end up buying a fish pie from a local vendor to go, along with some wine and bread. 

“I want to eat at the pier,” Joe coaxes, shifting the bag of food and wine to one arm so he can reach out with his hand and take Nicky’s with his, pulling him along like he fears he might lose the man otherwise. It’s not enough to drag him, so he abandons it and shifts it to take hold of Nicky’s arm, looping it in with Joe’s as they head towards a secluded spot under a streetlamp. 

Once they’ve settled leaning against the stone walls, Joe hands the cutlery over to Nicky, setting the pie between them. The smell is heavenly, unlike anything he’s ever encountered before. Booker had always tried, but his cuisine had been focused on stretching the ingredients and not indulging like this.

“Are you feeling better?” Joe asks.

Nicky blinks at him, almost confused. “Better?”

“The seasickness,” Joe clarifies. “You were so standoffish suddenly on the ship after we danced, but Andy explained that it must have been the smell of the food.”

“Yes,” Nicky happily agrees, maybe a little too quickly. “The food.”

Joe doesn’t intend to push, because there’s something else on his mind. He leans forward to tuck into the pie, closing his eyes every time a burst of flavour hits his tongue. It’s easily the most sensual and perfect thing he’s had in his life, which doesn’t have much competition given that Joe has only ever had _that_ experience twice before.

Honestly? The pie is better. 

“What if tomorrow goes terribly, Nicky?” Joe asks what’s been on his mind since they arrived. No matter how he’s tried to shake the thought, it keeps coming up again. “What if Quynh doesn’t like what she sees and she decides it’s not worth bringing me to the Empress.”

“Joe,” Nicky chides softly, dabbing at his lips with his napkin. He washes down the food with his wine, adjusting so he’s a little closer to Joe -- one stone closer on the pier wall. “That’s impossible. You _are_ Prince Yusuf.”

“I’m sure others have tried before,” Joe insists, unable to shake the doubt that’s been in his mind since he agreed to this. He’s an imposter, a fake, a phony, and no matter how assured Andy and Nicky seem, Joe can’t shake that belief. “Why am I different?”

“Because you _are_ him. Joe…”

“Then why don’t you call me Yusuf?” Joe demands, cutting Nicky off.

The question takes Nicky aback. He looks as if he’s been struck, leaning back and gaping at Joe for a long moment. “I…” He furrows his brow, staring at the ground. “I suppose I met you and you told me that your name is Joe. I think that maybe I call you Joe because if I call you Yusuf, it is a reminder that you are going on to such great things in your future and that right now, you are Joe and you are here. When you are Yusuf, you will not be.”

Is Nicky saying that he’s going to _miss him_ when he’s gone?

Maybe he’ll just miss having someone to bicker with. 

Joe turns so that his attention is fixed on the water, the wind pushing through his hair. Even with Nicky’s attempts to subdue it with gel and styling earlier today, the wind off the sea has wrecked it. He glances to Nicky at his side -- he’s a vision standing there with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, staring out to the inky water. Not for the first time today, Joe thinks that he’s a terribly handsome man.

Shame about his personality and his inability to see that Joe is clearly right more often than not.

“You know,” Joe says calmly, “if I weren’t a prince and you weren’t my accompaniment, this might feel like a date.”

It looks like it’s the wrong thing to say. Nicky shuts down, all the emotion bleeding from his face. “Well, it’s not. It’s just me showing you around. Your grandmother lives in Malta, you should understand what the country is like, as you said.” 

Joe tries to ignore that sting. “Fine,” he says, even if he’s not as defensive as he might have been before. “It’s not a date, if it would be _so terrible_ to be on a date with me.”

“Joe,” Nicky sighs. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me!”

Nicky’s silence does nothing to help the matter, only leaving Joe with more anger to stew in. He’s not going to say anything at all, is he? Joe sighs heavily, feeling that bitterness and anger rising in him.

“You need to focus on the future, Joe,” Nicky says pragmatically. “That’s why it’s not a date. I cannot let it be one.”

It’s not like he even wants Nicky. He’s a stupid, stubborn, handsome asshole. It’s only because Nicky doesn’t want him. It has nothing to do with how safe Joe had felt at night with him, or how he looks at Nicky first when he tells a joke to see if he’s laughing. It has nothing to do with the way his stomach had felt full of butterflies when they danced. It absolutely has nothing to do with his idle fantasies of taking Nicky back to the orphanage with him to introduce him to Booker, then show him to his room and curl up together in his reading chair while they re-read Joe’s favourite books.

The moonlight is doing terribly wonderful things to Nicky’s face. His eyes are cool and grey in its’ shine. Joe’s practically pressed up against him for warmth against the chill of the wind and he’s the only thing he can see, as if he can’t quite figure out the mystery that is Nicky Smith. There’s that feeling again within him, that connection he can’t ignore. 

“What if you’re ignoring all the good that’s in the present?” Joe demands, inching ever closer. 

Even if he tells himself that Nicky is rude, stubborn, and only cares about the reward money, Joe can’t ignore that there’s something else. 

“Nicky,” Joe breathes out, drifting towards him as he closes his eyes.

Whatever he feels, he intends to pursue it. 

Another few centimetres and his lips will brush Nicky’s. Joe reaches out for Nicky’s waist, holding onto him, but when he melts forward to kiss him, Nicky’s not there. 

Opening his eyes, Joe sees that Nicky has jerked back suddenly, looking away from Joe and avoiding eye contact. “Look,” he says, his pulse thumping wildly. “There’s ice cream. I’m still hungry, do you want some?” Before Joe even has a chance to tell him that it’s too cold for it and that Nicky hasn’t even finished his fish pie _or_ his wine, Nicky is gone.

Joe’s left alone on the pier.

He watches that stubborn, infuriating, irritating, beautiful and kind man walk away from him and wonders why he’s not enough.

(Not for one moment does Joe stop to think that maybe it could be the other way around; that if Joe is a prince after all, then what is Nicky in comparison?) 

“Not a date,” Joe repeats out loudly, glumly, and nods in agreement when Nicky asks if he wants any. He’s a princely sight, he knows it. The wind pushes through Joe’s hair, his clothes suit him beautifully, and in the moonlight, he knows he must be a vision, but it’s not one that Nicky wants. Still, “Not a date,” he reminds himself, as reality comes crashing back in.

Tomorrow, he will present himself to Quynh and step towards his new life, if she’ll allow him.

It’s back to fretting about that and not Nicky’s complete disinterest.


	5. Chapter 4

Today is the day.

Why does Nicky feel worse about presenting Joe to Quynh than he did on the ship? His stomach is in knots and he’s a complete mess, even if Andy promises that he has nothing to worry about. According to her, Joe has been excelling at his history, even surprising her by knowing some facts that she hadn’t covered. 

“That orphanage of his clearly made sure the lessons stuck,” she’d praised. 

He can dance, drink tea with the best of them, has clothes to suit a prince, and knows all about the royal family’s history. With his striking good looks and charm, Quynh won’t be able to ignore the fact that their orphan is Prince Yusuf.

Nicky hopes, at least. 

Andy would tell him that there is nothing to worry about. Even if Joe’s virtues are not enough to convince her, Andy will do the rest of the work to ensure that Quynh grants them an audience with the Empress. What that means, Nicky can surmise, but chooses not to ask. 

“Go get him,” Andy encourages. “Unless you’d like to tell me about last night and why Joe looked so dejected when you two returned to the hotel.”

Nicky very pointedly gets up to leave the room, silent the entire way. 

He knocks on the door, leaning his shoulder on the wall outside of Joe’s room, filtering through his apologies for last night and what he intends to say. Joe opens the door in the middle of working on his tie, suit jacket strewn haphazardly over the nearby chair. He doesn’t look pleased to see Nicky, but it soon becomes clear that Joe is flustered because of the tie and not him. 

Nicky arches a brow pointedly.

“Andy didn’t spend any time on this,” Joe complains, “and it’s not like black tie was a required dress code at the orphanage.” He throws his hands up in frustration, slumping back against the bed. 

Apology set to the side, Nicky sits down on the bed beside him, coaxing him to sit up. “Here,” he offers, as he takes the tie and winds it around his palm to hold it in place. The silk of the black tie is smooth against his palm, but it will look infinitely smoother once it adorns the collar of Joe’s pale blue shirt. He leans in and pops the collar so he can begin to wind the tie around, aiming for a proper square knot.

“I wanted to speak to you about last night,” Nicky admits, once he’s adjusting the knot. “I wanted you to know that…”

“Nicky,” Joe cuts him off. “Can it wait? I’m ready to throw up, I’m so nervous about proving myself to Quynh, I’m not sure I can stand to think about what happened last night between you and I. I get it. You said it wasn’t a date, you don’t feel that way about me, I get it.”

The trouble is that Nicky _does_ feel that way, but it’s impossible to imagine a future where his feelings matter. It’s best to stop things before they progress.

“Quynh has sent a car to pick us up,” Nicky says, grateful that the topic is being put aside. If he is too nervous now, he will be a complete wreck before he is presented to the Empress, so Nicky will be safe from having to talk about their disastrous non-date. Or maybe it is only a disaster because of how much Nicky had wanted it to be a date.

Either way, disaster is the most apt description. 

“Here,” he coaxes, leaving the door open so Andy can fetch them when Quynh is here. He brings Joe towards the seat at the end of the bed. “Sit with me, let’s breathe.”

“I thought I already knew how to do that,” Joe says, but there’s no ire in his words (which is a nice change). He lets Nicky guide him until they’re both sitting, gulping in air like it’s a precious commodity. “Why am I so nervous?”

“Because it matters to you,” Nicky replies, understanding intimately. He feels it, too, though maybe not to the same degree. 

Joe leans forward, exhaling (finally) and glancing up at Nicky over his shoulder. “I wish I knew what happened that night when I was eleven and I lost my memory,” he confesses. “This would all be so much easier if I’d known who I was from the start.” He sounds unsure, though, and Nicky is a touch wary. 

He has to believe he’s the crown prince by now, doesn’t he?

Andy is _very_ convincing and Nicky is persuasive when he needs to be, as well.

“Joe,” Nicky grabs his hands to get his attention, smiling brightly as he prepares himself for the lie. “You _are_ the prince.”

The important thing is that the real prince is dead. No one else could actually be Yusuf.

Who cares if Nicky has decided for the world that this man will serve in his place? 

Joe inhales and then lets out one last ragged exhale, giving him an appreciative smile. “Thanks, Nicky,” he says, sitting up, but not letting go of Nicky’s hands. He tugs Nicky a little closer, a furrow in his brow. “Listen,” he begins. “When this is over, do you think that we could…”

They are saved, miraculously, by Andy.

“The car is outside, let’s go!” Andy says, rapping her knuckles sharply on the hotel door. Joe jumps, withdrawing his hands from Nicky’s, looking extremely startled. 

It is a blessing she’d come when she did. Nicky’s not sure he could bear to break Joe’s heart by saying no to him again. He’s still dreading the conversation when they speak about the non-date and how Nicky can’t be with him because a prince has no business with a man like him. They could never be together, not when their futures are on diverging paths.

Maybe he isn’t talking to him about it because if he doesn’t, then it’s not reality. Not yet.

“You heard the woman,” Nicky says, on his feet. He grabs the sleek overcoat from its hanger, holding it out to Joe. “Let's secure you an audience with the Empress.”

Joe gulps as he takes the coat. “Now I know how you felt on the boat,” he mutters, letting Nicky help him into the coat before they head out, locking the door behind them.

Andy is waiting for them in the hall wearing a pinstriped suit and there’s even a flower in her hair. Nicky can see Joe smirking and opening his mouth to comment on it, which would be bad for all of them. 

He’ll feel bad about it later, but for now, elbowing Joe in the side seems the safest option, earning a howling yelp from him. “Nicky, what the hell?” he demands.

“Trust me,” he says under his breath, as they take the stairs down to the lobby. “You did not want to comment on Andy’s fashion choices when she is about to see Quynh. We have spent too long preparing you, I would prefer if you weren’t suddenly murdered.” 

It turns out that Nicky is the one who should have feared for his life.

Because when Joe leans in to whisper, “so you want me alive, do you?” right against his neck as they take the stairs, he very nearly misses a step and ends up broken on the next landing. Nicky shivers at the warmth of Joe’s breath on him, actively debating insulting Andy’s flower if only to change the mood. 

He doesn’t get the chance. 

Joe picks up speed to catch up with Andy, and the two of them get comfortable in the car Quynh’s sent, coaxing Nicky to join them. 

“Are you all right?” Andy asks him suspiciously, when Nicky is still flustered a few minutes into the drive. He hasn’t been very helpful to the conversation, nodding and saying ‘yes’ to questions he doesn’t really even hear.

Nicky breathes out to steady himself, reminding himself what today is about. “I will be,” he says, ignoring Joe’s confused look.

The car takes them from the bustling capital to the countryside where Quynh’s estate lies. Nicky knows that if given the choice, Andy would be here with her, and that the only reason she doesn’t come here permanently is because she’d met Nicky first and feels an obligation to him. He has residual guilt over that, but he suspects that once they’re finished securing Joe with his ‘family’, he’ll be asking Andy to stay behind with her love.

It’s only fair that one of them gets to be happy, right?

Joe has his head in his journal, flipping the pages as he studies his notes. Andy is fidgeting with her collar and the flower in her hair, the only signs that she’s nervous. Shifting in his seat, Nicky closes the distance between them to rest his chin on her shoulder, ever the annoying little brother.

“It’s going to go so well,” he vows.

“I know,” Andy agrees, “He’s ready.”

Nicky gives a quiet huff of laughter. “I meant that your reunion with Quynh will go well. I have faith in Joe.” 

That gets Joe’s attention from his journal, meeting Nicky’s praise with a smile that makes it feel as if the sun has come out from the clouds, warming Nicky’s skin. His heart nearly stops. He’s not sure if this is better or worse than when they were bickering every moment. It feels just as dangerous to his well-being.

He ignores Joe the rest of the ride, peering out the window to watch Malta pass as they leave the city, trees beginning to dapple the roadside more frequently. In the past, Quynh has offered to let Nicky stay in her guesthouse permanently if he wants it. 

The truth is that it’s always difficult to say no to her.

Maybe if he manages to successfully complete this job, it can be his last. There will be no more cons to help the people in the Maghreb and he can retire as a man of leisure in Quynh’s guesthouse. True, Andy would probably find a reason to kick him out before long, but it’s a nice thought. 

“We’re here,” Andy says, after twenty minutes of perfect countryside passing their windows.

She sounds nervous, which means Nicky has to shoot Joe a warning glare. If he can avoid commenting about her outfit, then he definitely needs to keep quiet about this. One look at Joe and it appears that Nicky is the only one in this car (outside of their driver) who _isn’t_ nervous.

It’s almost a nice change.

“Go on,” Nicky encourages, giving Joe a light prod to follow Andy up the path. There are beautiful cherry trees lining the gravel path that lead to the porch of Quynh’s impressive seaside estate. Looking around, Nicky wonders again why he hasn’t decided to retire here. 

It would be so much simpler, wouldn’t it?

He thinks Joe would even stay with him, if he asked. Of course, then Joe would never meet the Empress, they’d never get their money, and the hundreds of children that Nicky had vowed to help would go hungry, helpless, and remain hurting. 

Nicky ruefully inhales the sweet scent of the cherry blossoms, staring at them balefully as he follows Joe up the steps. Yet one more thing he must deny himself, for the greater good.

Andy stops on the porch, breathing out slowly. Joe isn’t in much better shape. Between the both of them, Nicky suspects they might vibrate off into the sea if they’re not careful. 

He remains a few steps behind on the path, hands in his pockets, guarding them as he always does. Soon, Andy finds the courage to knock, and Nicky is certainly not so heartless that he isn’t pleased when Quynh’s voice sings out. “I’ll be right there!” causes Andy to smile in such a way that has never happened around Nicky.

He ought to be jealous, but he knows there’s no competing with Andy’s love for Quynh.

It’s been months since Nicky last saw Quynh, which means it’s also been months since Andy did. He smiles when Quynh opens the door, looking ethereal in a beautiful sundress that hangs to the ground. Andy, however, is ecstatic. 

“My love,” Quynh greets her, laughing with delight as Andy sweeps her off her feet, spinning her around as she grins and kisses her lips, her jaw, her neck, and every inch of skin that’s on display. “Please, stop! You know how that tickles!” Quynh protests, crowing with laughter as Andy keeps a hold of her.

One glance to the side tells Nicky that Joe is a bit stunned by this display.

“What’s more shocking?” Nicky asks, taking a leaping guess. “That Andy has emotions? Or that she has _these_ emotions?”

“It’s like watching a bear ice dancing,” Joe admits, gaping open-mouthed. “I didn’t think she had it in her.” 

“Everyone is capable of wanting love, aren’t they?” It makes Nicky’s heart ache to watch Andy be so happy, if only because he knows that it will never be something he experiences, not like this. It would be nice to imagine meeting Joe in another life, where they could be two men who greet one another like that, but Joe will be a false prince swimming in money, and Nicky is just a kitchen boy turned con man.

He glances to the side when Joe says nothing, seeing that he’s being stared at. 

Ignoring it, he steps forward to greet Quynh. “You are as beautiful as ever,” he shares, “but I think Andy has already told you that three times.” 

“Five,” Andy boasts proudly. “Quynh, we brought the man we want you to meet and evaluate. Joe, come here, come meet my partner.” 

Joe steps forward to be evaluated, standing there for Quynh’s inspection. Nicky hangs back, because he’s done all that he can. Andy can help influence Quynh as needed, but Nicky will have no hand in that. From here on out, he’s only here for the ride.

“Well, he certainly looks the part,” Quynh says, rounding Joe a few times as she reaches out to grasp him by the chin, staring into his eyes. 

Nicky feels irritated by the intrusion. “He’s a prince, Quynh, not a prize dog.” He is ignoring the fact that he did the very same thing to Joe the day they met.

“They’re one and the same, in my opinion,” she replies with a distracted hum. “I’ve put some tea on. Come inside, you can tell me all about your family, your history, and how it is you’ve come to seek an audience with the Empress.” 

Joe hesitates on the doorstep, but Nicky guides him inside. He can tell that he’s unnerved by the wealth within this house. It’s a combination of Quynh’s inheritances, trinkets from her travels, and gifts from the Empress. Within this beautiful house, it makes for an impressive collection -- one that Nicky aspires to, someday.

“Sit!” Quynh calls from the parlour. 

Nicky gives Joe the gentlest of nudges and encouraging nods, guiding Joe towards the expensive looking seats atop the wildly extravagant marble tiles. Joe takes the wingback chair while Quynh and Andy settle onto a loveseat, folded together as if they’re trying to be one person (aided by Andy’s constant touches to Quynh’s cheek, her kisses, and her doting looks). Nicky lingers by the fireplace, on his feet, keeping himself well out of the way of questions.

“I thought we’d start easy,” Quynh says sunnily. “How do you like Malta?”

It’s a question that catches Joe off guard. He looks positively ready to start launching into expansive detail about his family tree, their rules, and what their pet dog was named. It’s clear that he hadn’t expected a question about the country.

“What?”

“Malta,” Quynh repeats, amused. “How do you like it?”

“I haven’t seen much of it, beyond what Nicky took me to see last night.”

Quynh and Andy exchange knowing looks, which are quickly turned on him. “He took you out, did he?”

“It was better than sitting in the rooms waiting for the night to pass,” Nicky complains, not sure why he is the one being interrogated suddenly when they had come here for Joe. “We had fish pie on the pier, then ice cream.” He deliberately doesn’t mention their near-kiss, his sharp denial of it being a date, and anything else about the night.

“It’s a beautiful country,” Joe finally says. “Maybe it was made better by the company,” he adds, giving Nicky a wink. 

Nicky bristles, aware that Joe is only doing that so that the women will keep their attention on him. He tries to gesture back to Joe as a reminder what they’re here for, ducking in for a lemon scone from Quynh’s tea-tray. “The country will still be here tomorrow, but we are only at your estate for today,” he reminds her. “Andy might remain, but we are here for a reason,” is his soft insistence, trying to speak quietly enough that Joe doesn’t hear him.

“All business, still,” Quynh sighs. “Did he agree to our deal?” she turns to Andy.

“Deal?” Joe pries.

“The deal is only when Joe has found his family again,” he says, hoping that will get this moving. Joe is still staring intently at him, but it soon becomes clear that none of them are going to reveal their secrets in front of him. And so, they continue. “So?”

Quynh hums softly, the only sign of her displeasure, and sips her tea. “Fine,” she allows. “Joe, let’s begin.”

 _Finally_.

Nicky heads back to the fireplace to sip his tea and eat his scone, only absently paying attention to the grilling that Joe is enduring. He has no cause to worry, because every question Quynh gives Joe arrives with an easy answer from the man. He speaks confidently of his relatives, quotes Prince Yusuf’s favourite poem, and decisively names his favourite food.

He ducks Quynh’s trick questions, dodges away from gossip and rumour, giving only fact.

This might actually work. 

Nicky’s riding that high when Quynh comes in with something to cut them down, an expected question that Nicky had anticipated arriving much later -- _after_ Quynh had approved Joe for an audience with the Empress. 

“Now,” Quynh says, reaching for her cup of tea before she settles back into Andy’s arms, unaware of how cutting her next question will be. “Tell me, Joe, how did you escape the night of the riots.”

Andy shoots Nicky a panicked look, because they hadn’t managed to get to that part. He was going to feed him the story of the real Prince Yusuf, but they hadn’t had time. He also hadn’t thought that Quynh would go right for that, but here they are.

Joe frowns, absently rubbing the tip of his index finger around the rim of his teacup. “It’s so hard to remember,” he admits, “it almost feels like a dream now.”

“Take your time,” Andy says, throwing Nicky a sharp look.

They’re sunk, Nicky thinks. They’re absolutely sunk. Andy will need to charm their way to the Empress, but what then? If Joe doesn’t know this story, then when Nicky feeds it to him later, he will doubt it.

Before he can come up with an emergency to pull Joe aside, he begins to speak.

“There was a boy,” Joe says, slowly. “I think he was a kitchen boy. The son of some of the servants in the palace.” He closes his eyes. “We danced,” he says, his smile rueful and fond. “I remember the other staff always commented on how precious and adorable he was. I enjoyed his company because he was close to my age, and I always made sure I requested him to attend me because I was jealous when his attentions were taken.” He’s taken his hand off the teacup, clutching the key on the chain around his neck. “When the riots moved inside the palace, he took me into the secret passages in the walls, and we escaped. I think we escaped.”

Nicky’s whole body feels rooted to the spot.

It’s been twenty-two years since that fateful night, but he’ll never forget a moment of it. He remembers Prince Yusuf stepping on his toes after insulting Nicky’s heritage. He remembers the gunshots and panicking as he hid Yusuf in the walls. He remembers squeezing past the gates into the crowds.

He remembers losing Yusuf forever.

Only, he hasn’t, has he?

“Joe,” he exhales, the whisper barely audible.

He’s glad it isn’t, because Joe continues. “We escaped,” he says, confident now. “He took me outside and gave me his coat.” He slides his fingers over the shirt he’s wearing. “It was too small. By the time we’d found an escape, I was covered in dirt and I got lost in the crowd. I lost him. I lost the boy.”

Nicky can’t bear the pain of his heart pounding in his chest. How is he meant to tell Joe that he didn’t lose him, that he’s right there. No one is saying anything at all, though Nicky is sure that it’s for varying reasons. For Andy, she’s shocked that Joe already knows the answer Nicky had been meant to feed him. For Quynh, she appears delighted, because she knows this is the right answer for the Empress.

For Nicky, his entire world has just been turned upside down. 

“Excuse me,” Nicky says in the ensuing silence.

He bolts outside, unable to control his panic. Nicky only makes it as far as one of Quynh’s beautiful cherry trees, the blossoms beginning to bud. He rests his forearm on the bark, pressing his forehead against it as he struggles to breathe. 

Nicky didn’t find some imposter. 

He found Yusuf, the actual Yusuf. That key around his neck, he can’t believe he never recognized it before. Now, with this new information coming to light, Nicky recalls it. It’s the key that opens the music box and winds it up to play its tune. He’s awash with emotions assaulting him so quickly that he cannot name.

Relief, guilt, shame, joy, victory, pain, and then, last of all, a hollow ache that punches him as he realizes what this means.

He doesn’t have much time to process it, because it seems he’s not alone. 

“I thought you didn’t give him the story.”

Andy. Fuck, _Andy_. How is he going to explain his reaction to this?

“I didn’t,” Nicky admits, turning to give her a fraught look. “That story is only something that I know, along with the real Prince Yusuf. No one else was with us that night. It’s him, Andy. Joe is the real Prince Yusuf, Andromache. We found him.” Nicky had found him. All these weeks and the boy that he’s dreamed about for years has been under his nose.

The boy he’d known and the man he’s fallen in love with are one and the same. 

“Oh, Nicky, but this is good,” Andy insists, beaming. “We don’t have to lie anymore. You can safely present Joe to the Empress. He’s really her grandson.”

“Yes,” Nicky agrees, his heart shattering in his chest. “He is, and that means that I no longer have a chance with him, not even a sliver of one.” He sees Andy’s pity building and he shakes his head, not wanting to hear it. “Princes don’t date servant boys,” he reminds her. “The moment we deliver him back to the Empress, he’ll return to the royal life he deserves. He’ll be a prince in Malta and I’ll just be Nicky Smith.”

It aches in a way that Nicky hadn’t been expecting, but what did he really think?

Even if the con had worked out, Joe would have thought himself a prince and Nicky is still nothing to him. Whatever feelings he’s begun to develop for him on their journey are pointless in the face of their disparate social classes. He’d known that. It’s only that he’d been in denial about it. 

This is only a reminder of the inevitable future.

Andy squeezes his shoulder and pulls him in for a hug, kissing his temple. “You really like him, don’t you?”

Nicky grabs at her wrist, needing her to anchor him. “He’s Prince Yusuf,” he admits, voice raw and hoarse. “I have loved him for more years than I’ve been with him,” he confesses, thinking of the twenty-two years between losing him and finding him and how Nicky had built up this beautiful, wonderful, intelligent, clever prince in his head.

And now, here is Joe, proving that Nicky’s fantasies had fallen short. He’s even better, even though he is stubborn and sharp and cutting. 

Worst of all, though, is that he is not Nicky’s and he will never be. He clears his throat, rubbing at his cheek with the back of his fingers. “Quynh should have no problem presenting him to the Empress,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’ll go and secure clothes for the ballet.”

“Nicky,” Andy says softly, pulling him back.

He’s not sure what for until she keeps tugging until he’s in her arms, secure in a tight embrace that he hadn’t known he needed until this very moment. Nicky buries his face into her neck, his fingers digging into her coat. He’s so preoccupied with his heart breaking in two that he hardly hears the front door shutting, but soon Joe’s excited voice follows.

“She says she’ll present me!”

Nicky hides his face by ducking in front of Andy, wiping at his wet cheeks to compose himself. By the time he steps to her side to greet Joe, he is smiling sunnily, ignoring the revelation that has undone everything he’s known.

For a moment, Nicky stares at Joe like he’s seeing him for the first time again. He’d looked at him only as a pawn in his game, but now that he sees him again, he doesn’t know how he missed it.

Those are Yusuf’s eyes, his kind smile, the slightly sharp tone he has when he’s cutting you down with wit and charm. His eyes fall to the key around his neck is the one that belongs with the music box. 

All this time, Joe has been carrying the other half to what Nicky needs.

“That’s wonderful news,” Nicky replies, burying down any awful emotions that have been surfacing as a result of this epiphany. 

It is wonderful.

Joe will get his future. Nicky will get his money.

It’s the happy ending they both set out to find. It’s just not the happy ending that Nicky has come to want. Inexplicably, impossibly, insurmountably, that happy ending involves him and Joe, because despite how annoying he is, how frustrating he’s always been, Nicky loves him now in a much different way than Nicolò loved Yusuf as a boy.

He even thinks it might have been forever.

“Quynh will bring us further instructions when she can,” Andy says, squeezing Nicky’s shoulder in support. “We should go back to the hotel and get you settled in, while I get my things and come back here. Nicky, you get the room all to yourself.”

She thinks she’s being kind, but it means that Nicky is going to be alone.

Considering he’d spent years hoping for some independence, it now seems crushingly depressing, because Joe will be a room away, and there is a timer ticking down to the point that he will leave him, forever.

It is the beginning of the happy ending and Nicky has to get used to that. It’s what he wanted, isn’t it? Maybe he should’ve been careful what he wished for.

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Quynh has no doubts about Joe whatsoever. She truly believes that he is the lost Prince Yusuf and will secure them an audience with the Empress within the week. The news comes swiftly along with formal invitations to their hotel room delivered by Quynh’s own hand.

Nicky still feels as if he is sleepwalking.

Of course she believes that Joe is Prince Yusuf.

He actually _is_.

“Sleeping Beauty is being put on by the Maltese ballet,” she shares, handing Andy an elegant dress. “The Empress will be attending in her box. I’ve secured you the box next to us. You’ll be able to meet her at the intermission.” Her gaze falls to Joe and Nicky. “Make sure he’s dressed appropriately. The Empress does not entertain scoundrels.”

Her comment is pointedly delivered to Nicky, who, despite his shock, manages a smirk in reply. 

“I know where to order tuxedos,” Nicky assures her. “I would never want to sully your reputation, my Lady.” She presses a kiss to his cheek in parting, leaving Joe to reflect on their success. 

He seems stunned in Quynh’s wake, and with Andy gone after her, Nicky has to decide if he will be a coward and go too, or if he will stay and check on Joe. Old instinct is the reason he stays, he tells himself.

(The truth is that he stays because Joe deserves to have someone to be here with him for this, even if Nicky is an impermanent part of his life). 

“Nicky, I don’t believe this,” Joe breathes out, his posture shifting the moment Quynh is gone. He’s grabbing at Nicky’s wrist like he’s holding onto him, as if Nicky is the lifeline he needs. Unbidden, Nicky’s mind flashes back to all those years ago when Yusuf had held onto him as they escaped the palace.

What had happened that night? Where had he vanished to?

Even Joe doesn’t know the answers to these questions, though Nicky suddenly thinks maybe he’s been approaching this the wrong way. What if instead of teaching Joe the lessons of his past, he tries to make him relive some of them? What if that sparks the memory.

“Well, you had better believe it. We need to get you fitted for a tuxedo.”

“Shouldn’t Andy have the measurements?” Joe asks him. 

Nicky gives Joe a pointed look, then glances down the hall to where Andy has vanished. She will be useless for days now, and there will be no measurements, no tuxedos, and certainly no more fittings coming from her.

Joe’s smile builds, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Ah,” he says knowingly. “How long have they been together?”

“Almost ten years,” Nicky says, checking his pockets for the money he’ll need. He could do this by sending the measurements to the tailor, but if something is going to spark Joe’s memory, why not bring him to a fitting?

As a child, Nicky had lost track of how many times he’d sat in the corner of Yusuf’s room, bored out of his mind while the tailors took measurements for new trousers and shirts, all because Yusuf had the audacity to go and grow another inch again and again. Why Nicky, a kitchen servant, had to be there was beyond him.

Yusuf had insisted, though, and what the prince wanted always happened.

Nicky is in charge this time, manhandling Joe towards the little shop. Once there, old habits quickly re-establish themselves. Joe is older, taller, (more handsome) and deserving of a proper suit, but he is still the one on the pedestal and Nicky is still the one in the corner, sneaking biscuits when the tailor isn’t looking.

“What would you like done?”

Nicky waits for Joe to reply. He holds his breath, anticipating that _maybe_ he will have some sparked memory. It never comes. Instead, Joe looks expectantly at him, which turns quickly into disbelief and irritation when Nicky isn’t saying anything.

“My apologies,” Joe says smoothly, “I didn’t realize my partner had suddenly gone stupid.”

 _Partner_.

Nicky feels the flush in his cheeks, wishing that Joe could remember everything so he understood how wrong he is.There’s no equal ground when one of you is a servant and the other is a prince. When it’s clear Joe isn’t going to swoop in and become Prince Yusuf before his eyes, Nicky takes over. 

He brushes away the crumbs from his lips so he can step up and start indicating where he wants the cut of the suit. Every so often, his fingers brush against Joe’s clothes and he fixes it with short little tugs and pulls. They do this several times over, because two suits in and Nicky still doesn’t like what he’s seeing. 

Each time Nicky reaches out to manually adjust the fabric, Joe inhales suddenly -- which Nicky is going to ignore, reminding himself that after the ballet, it doesn’t matter how well Joe might think of him compared to how he did when they first met. He will return to his princely life and Nicky will be left behind. He slides his fingers over the shiny lapels of the suit he’s trying on (the third, now), turning to the tailor while keeping a hold on this latest suit.

“This one,” he says, sure of it.

Joe looks resplendent in it, in a way that the others hadn’t managed. He is a vision and one that Nicky can feast on, for now. He thinks it must be like great works of art in a museum. He can look, he can enjoy, but he can never touch, and he can certainly never own. 

Through the measurements, still Joe does not have any moment in which he remembers. Nicky feels like his frustration is going to build to an explosive peak. He does a very stupid thing as a result. He stops talking to Joe. He stops being polite. He pays for the suits, tells Joe that they should go back to the hotel, and says almost nothing to him along the way.

When he returns back to the hotel with the suits over his shoulder, he knows he is being short and irritable. Joe tries to make conversation several times, but Nicky can’t bear it.

“That’s not very nice of you,” Andy comments, when Joe slams the door to his room in retaliation for Nicky sniping that he’d rather have dinner by himself. “I thought you two had a truce.”

“Once the Empress takes him in, it will be easier for him to walk away if he hates me again,” Nicky says, as depressing as such things are. 

Andy sighs, as if she doesn’t know what to do with him.

“Nicky,” she chides. “Sometimes, you’re very stupid, you know.”

He does. He doesn’t appreciate her reminding him of such things.

Over the next few days, Nicky spends his time packing his things. Once he and Andy have the money, they will be doing a very quick departure from the hotel (before the staff realizes that the information on file is completely false). He will be on a boat, then a train back to the Maghreb capital to distribute his funds. 

Soon, it is time for their scheme to reach its grand finale.

Andy is a vision in her dress as she helps get him in his tuxedo, glancing over his shoulder to his reflection in the mirror. “Joe looks excellent,” she praises. “You did a good job picking his suit.”

Nicky smooths a hand over his shirt, trying to ignore the pleasure that rises in him at a job well done. He knows he will need to see Joe in the flesh soon enough, and he only hopes that his heart can bear it (and other parts, because lately, Joe has been reminding Nicky how very much of a grown man with _needs_ he is).

“How handsome does he look?” Nicky dares to ask.

“You’re going to be a mess all night,” Andy whispers helpfully into his ear, helping him slide into the tuxedo jacket. 

“Mess about what?”

Nicky has seen Joe in the tuxedo already. He’d helped him pick it out and helped to have it fitted. None of that prepares him for the sight of Joe as he stands here prepared for the ballet. He is wearing a beautiful burgundy silk bow tie and the suit is every bit as fitted and perfect as Nicky had hoped for. His hair falls in shiny, silky, tight curls with some oil in it, and Nicky swears that Joe has done something to the lights in the hotel, because his eyes seem to magically glint in their reflection.

Struck dumb, Nicky gapes at him, aware that Andy had been so very right. 

“I…” He gulps, forcing himself to close his mouth. “I’ll be a mess of nerves,” he lies, accepting the ticket for the ballet to slide inside his pocket. Andy kisses his cheek and whispers that she’ll meet them in the box at the ballet. 

Joe scoffs, approaching to adjust Nicky’s tie slightly. “ _You’ll_ be a mess?” he teases. “Have you seen me?”

“Yes,” says Nicky, much too seriously. “I have.”

He never wants to stop seeing him. That’s the problem.

“Should we go?” Joe asks, when that moment stretches out into something a little less than comfortable. Nicky suspects that he might have been caught out, but luckily, Joe doesn’t seem to want to deal with it right now.

They have bigger fish to fry, so to speak.

Nicky finds their car waiting for them. The driver looks professional enough, but Nicky isn’t sure what he will tell the Empress, so he decides that any conversation they have cannot speak to Joe preparing or studying for anything. From here on out, Joe is Prince Yusuf and Nicky is his servant at his beck and call. 

The ride to the concert hall is a quiet one, which seems simpler than having to pick and choose between dangerous conversation topics.

Nicky is, indeed, a mess. Joe is also a hurricane of nerves, even though he has nothing to be nervous about. “What happens tomorrow?” Joe asks, suddenly. “If the Empress takes me in. What happens to you?”

It’s not a question Nicky had been anticipating, but he’s grateful for the easy answer. “I will return home.” He doesn’t mention the money. There’s no need to bring the reward into this conversation, because then Joe will think poorly of him.

Never mind that it would be accurate for him to feel such things.

“You wouldn’t consider staying?” 

Nicky isn’t sure what Joe is saying. The confusion must show on his face, because Joe continues.

“I might need someone,” he points out. “Not a servant, but…” He furrows his brow, tapping his fingers on his knee. “An assistant?”

 _Maybe a kitchen boy_ , thinks Nicky. 

“There will be other people that are better suited to such a life waiting for you,” Nicky is happy to promise, and this isn’t even a lie. He had been surrounded by them for years, and knows that they still orbit around the Empress. 

“What if I don’t want them? What if I want someone very specifically suited to the role?”

Does he know? Does he remember?

“Yusuf,” Nicky exhales, staring at him and pleading with his eyes for him to tell him that the memories are back.

Joe shakes his head, lips pressed together. “Joe,” he reminds him calmly. 

Just like that, the spell between them is shattered. “There will be better people for the job,” Nicky repeats himself, more convinced of that than ever. 

It is the last word he says until they arrive at the concert hall. He waits in the car as Joe tidies himself and steps out onto the red carpet, earning the adoration of all those staring at him, whispering and wondering who he is. By morning, Nicky suspects the city will be on fire with rumours and news about the returned prince. 

Tonight, he is just an incredibly handsome man. 

“We’re up here,” Nicky says, gesturing for Joe to enter their box once they’ve ascended the stairs, past gaudy chandeliers and impressively expensive portraits. Quynh had secured this for them, which had been kind of her. He would have hated to wait for an audience with the Empress smushed together down in the orchestra seats, knocking knees against the other people of Malta. 

Joe takes the front seat and Nicky the one beside. The row behind them has a chair for Andy, but Nicky knows that she will be watching at the door, waiting for Quynh and their opportunity. 

They are so close. When the night is over, it will all be done -- for better or worse. 

The ballet begins with the orchestra’s soft cacophony of instruments beginning to coalesce into a melody. Next door, the Empress awaits. Quynh has promised to get them an audience during the intermission and Nicky trusts her, which means there is only a little over an hour before Joe will find his happiness.

At this very moment, the only thing he is doing is making Nicky sympathetically nervous.

“Stop that,” he leans over to whisper, catching the way Joe is shredding his program.

Joe shoots him a frantic look. “What am I supposed to do instead?” he hisses.

Deciding to take matters into his own hands (literally), Nicky reaches over and takes Joe’s left hand in his right, and his right hand in his left. He crisscrosses them, tangles their fingers together, and holds on.

Joe goes so completely silent that Nicky worries that he’s overstepped his bounds. He turns to look at Joe in the dim lights, but there’s only a look of shock on his face, mouth forming a silent ‘oh’ that makes Nicky to flush at the sight of.

Squeezing Joe’s hands to reassure him, he turns his attention to the ballet. 

The performance goes much too fast and too slow at once. It is a funny trick of space and time, but Nicky swears they’ve only just sat down when the music is coming to a soft close, and he feels Quynh’s elegant finger tapping his shoulder. “It’s time,” she whispers.

Nicky squeezes both of Joe’s hands, giving him an encouraging nod.

“Too late to run?”

“I’d tackle you,” Nicky informs him, though he tries very hard not to think about Joe’s body pinned beneath his, squirming and writhing in an attempt to get free. He is glad the lights in the concert hall are dimmed, because otherwise Joe would see how furiously he has flushed in his cheeks. “Let’s go,” he says, and decouples their hands, standing to follow Quynh. 

Quynh goes inside to prepare the Empress, telling Joe and Nicky to wait there.

This is it. 

Nicky watches Joe keenly, seeing the way he is fidgeting and pacing. “She’s going to see through me,” he says with a scoff. “She’s going to send me away, I’m not…” He closes his eyes, head falling. “I was Booker’s kid, that was always good enough for me, why did I have to go seeking more family, why did I have to let you talk me into this,” he’s rambling sharply, an edge in his voice Nicky isn’t sure he likes. “Why did…”

Drastic measures are needed. Nicky steps forward and grabs Joe by the shoulders to hold him in place, leaning in to press one soft, warm kiss to his forehead. It silently says many things, none that Nicky is willing to confess aloud, but mainly, it is:

_I’m so happy you’re here and alive and safe. I’m so happy that I can give this to you._

Nicky eases back to see Joe looking at him wondrously. It’s done the trick in shutting him up, though now there is an awkward silence between them and Nicky isn’t sure what kind of kiss would be required to fix that.

“Nicky,” Joe breathes out. “We really need to talk.”

“No,” Nicky says sadly. “We don’t.”

On the heels of his reply, Quynh pokes her head back out to summon them inside. “She’s ready for you,” she whispers. Joe and Nicky follow in her wake, standing at the back of the box with their hands clasped behind their backs. Nicky gives Joe a nudge in the back, getting him to step forward and down one of the velvet-covered stairs to be presented to the Empress.

She’s exactly as Nicky remembered, though obviously older. Her hair has greyed fully and maybe she wants to look fashionable in her hat, but it only calls attention to the colour of her hair. She has more frown lines than laughter ones, but her life has been a tragedy and he wouldn’t have expected anything else. Her gown glitters with jewels and Nicky controls his sneer, thinking about how she could have used that money to help instead of hid away with her luxury and her riches in this tower ignoring the world. 

“Is this the man you wanted me to see?” the Empress asks Quynh, lifting her glasses to her face so she can judge Joe. 

“Yes, your Majesty,” Quynh says, her tone subdued and reverent, “I think you’ll find that he’s…”

“Not another word.”

The Empress silently stares at Joe, who stands there and endures it. Minutes pass as she takes in his face, his form, and finally it seems she is done. Unfortunately, she doesn’t render judgment. Instead, her gaze slides from Joe to Nicky. Nicky holds his breath, trying to ignore the pit in his stomach that tells him that something is about to go poorly, but hope is not enough to wish reality away from happening. 

“You’re him, aren’t you? Nicolò di Genova.”

“I’m not,” Nicky pleads, glancing to his side to see Joe standing there in his beautiful tuxedo, looking as perfect as ever, and a reminder why this can’t go wrong. “No,” he tells the woman. “I’m Nicky Smith,” he insists, trying to salvage this beyond her recognizing him for who he is and not the cover name he’s been using. 

“Are you telling me you’re not the con man who’s been casting men for the role of my grandson, advertising it in the papers back home in the capital?” 

“Nicky?”

Nicky’s face falls, aware that Joe is staring at him in horror. There is too much evidence to deny. There are the ads in the papers, there are the actors who have auditioned for him (and who knows if any of them talked the moment the Empress’ investigators asked questions). Worse, there is Nicky’s own dubious history with Joe, in which he sold him a _story_ without any real proof.

“You don’t understand,” Nicky says, beginning to feel panic setting in. He’s not even sure if he’s making this passionate defense to Joe or to the Empress. “It’s not like that. I know what I’ve done in the past, but it’s different this time!”

“I’m sure that’s what they all say,” the Empress huffs. “Quynh, I’m very disappointed in you.”

“Majesty,” Quynh protests. “Please, you need to listen to…”

“I do not want to entertain any more actors or fakes,” the Empress informs him, keeping her chin high. She’s not even _looking_ at Joe. She’s wrong, she’s so wrong, and Nicky just has to explain it to her.

He struggles to keep the door to her suite open even as Quynh tries to shuffle them out with an apologetic expression on her face. “No, you don’t understand,” he begs, knowing he sounds desperate. “You have to let him stay, you need to listen to his story, you…”

“I will not,” she says sharply. “I am done. There will be no more, do you hear me?” She turns to stare at Quynh, steely and commanding. “No more,” is repeated, softer and filled with regret and heartbreak. “Certainly not this con man and his fake.” 

The door closes on Joe’s future. No matter how hard Nicky pounds on it, he knows that his protests will be falling on deaf ears. Slumping forward, he sees all the reward money vanish before his eyes, but that’s not what’s causing the pit in his stomach. 

“So that’s what this has all been about?” 

Joe sounds utterly _distraught_.

“You know, I thought it was a scam at the beginning,” Joe keeps speaking. Nicky hasn’t the courage to face him, not yet. “I thought that I would use you and Andy to get to Malta, but you know the awful part of it? I don’t know when, I don’t know at what point, but you had me convinced that I might actually be Prince Yusuf,” Joe murmurs, his voice breaking.

Nicky finally turns, reaching for Joe. He steps back, out of reach.

“I was even dreaming as if I were Prince Yusuf. I dreamt of you, giving me your coat, helping me escape, but that was all a lie, wasn’t it?”

“No,” Nicky pleads. “Yusuf, no.”

“It’s Joe,” he says sharply. “Joe Jones. It’s time I stopped living in the delusion you’ve tricked me with.” He looks bereft, but every time Nicky steps forward to try and reach for him, he steps away. “I knew this couldn’t possibly be real, but I let myself believe it. I let myself believe _you_ ,” he accuses, eyes shining with angry tears. “I’m leaving. Tonight. I don’t want you to follow me, do you hear me Nicky? Or Nicolò. Whatever your name is, I never want to see you again in my life,” he spits out his warning, the words breaking with regret and grief. “It would have been _kinder_ if you had just left me alone. You would have done me so much better if you had never convinced me that…”

He trails off, shoulders sagging forward, almost as if he’s run out of steam.

“Go,” he says, barely audible, but Nicky hears it.

It will be branded on his heart for all time. _Go_ , said Joe. The prince has told him to leave. He has told him that Nicky is nothing more than a cruel con man, which is a truth that Nicky thinks he’s always known and has tried to run from. 

“Joe…” Nicky begins, wanting so desperately to apologize.

“No,” Joe cuts him off, as if he knows what’s coming. “You don’t get the satisfaction of groveling,” he warns, his voice shaking. “Just _go_.” He scoffs, shaking his head as he yanks his bowtie from his collar. “You know what? I’ll do it for you,” he vows. “Good riddance, Nicky Smith,” he spits at him. “I hope, one day, that you experience the pain I’m feeling right now. It’s what you deserve.”

Watching Joe storm out of the opera, how is Nicky to tell him that he doesn’t have to wait very long at all? His heart is already shattered into a thousand pieces watching Joe walk away from his rightful future and family, all because of Nicky’s past. 

_Go_ , Joe had said.

Go where, that’s the question. Staring at Joe as he leaves the concert hall, frozen in place, he’s not sure he knows what comes next. He only knows that whatever it is, it will be a life without Joe in it.


	6. Chapter 5

Joe is gone. 

He’s stormed off for who knows where, probably back to teach at the orphanage, where he would be forever out of his life. Joe’s gone. Nicky’s alone and the man he loves thinks that he’s nothing more than a scam artist, who’d been trying to earn a quick score. Worse, his guilty conscience reminds him that it might have been about money to begin with (but only to help others), but had changed since that day at Quynh’s. Since then, this has only ever been about giving Joe back his family.

He couldn’t even do that.

“Nicky,” Andy sighs. “We tried.”

He doesn’t want to hear it. His eyes are fixed on the patrons departing the ballet, concocting a plan in his mind. “Go back to Quynh, Andy,” he says, beginning to move towards the line of cars outside. “There won’t be any money.”

“What are you doing, Nicky?” 

“Something I should have done from the start.” 

He ignores Andy, spying inside each luxury car until he finds the one he’s looking for. The Empress’ car is waiting at the back of the line, out of sight enough that Nicky is able to grab the driver from the front seat, hauling him out of the car with a hand clamped over his mouth. “Not a sound,” he warns. 

The man looks visibly frightened, which might be an indication of how completely feral and furious Nicky has become. It’s all his fault that he looks and feels this wild, but still, he’s glad it’s working in his favour. 

“I won’t let any harm come to her, I just need to talk to the woman. Don’t make a sound, don’t call for help. I’ll park the car at the hotel,” he vows. “You’ll have it back in thirty minutes. Raise an alarm, tell someone, and you may not like what I do.”

It’s a baseless and empty threat, but the driver doesn’t know that. The important part is that it works. He abandons his cap to Nicky and lets him have the car. Within moments, he has joined the queue of other private drivers, seeing the Empress carefully descending the stairs with the aid of an usher and her cane. 

There is nothing to give away that Nicky is not the official driver. He keeps his head down, he faces forward, and the truth is that he suspects the Empress will look at him and only see the help without noting the details of his fine suit. As she settles, Nicky holds his breath, hoping that she won’t have anyone join her. 

His hopes become reality when she dismissively waves any help away. 

“Take me home,” the Empress says once the door has been closed, checking her reflection in her compact mirror. 

Nicky has no intention of doing that, but he also doesn’t want to alarm her. “Certainly,” he replies, putting on a Maltese accent. He tips his cap to her and drives slowly around the block, making a few turns so as not to rouse suspicion as he makes it seem like they’ve been driving for a while, before parking the car in the alley behind the concert hall. 

It doesn’t take long for the Empress to see that they’re not where she expects.

“Ex _cuse_ me, young man, what do you think you’re…”

Nicky takes off the cap and leans back to look at her over his shoulder. He catches the rueful look on her face, as well as the way her hand drifts towards her side, likely looking for a weapon. He has heard stories about the Empress sticking sharp blades into unprepared men and he has no plans to become like them.

“You wouldn’t listen to me before, so I had to take matters into my own hands,” he says sharply. “You are right. I’m a con man. I am Nicolò di Genova, and I rob rich people to give their money to those who need it. You were not wrong about me.”

“I will scream,” the Empress warns calmly, even as Nicky locks the doors.

“You can scream when I am done talking.” He waits until she acquiesces and does not mention that screaming will not do much when no one is around to hear it. Once she does, he nods and continues. “You are wrong about him. I looked for an actor. I even found one that would have been suitable, but do you know who I found first? I found Joe Jones wandering around the palace and staring at an old portrait of a royal family. He is...perfect.”

“Yes,” the Empress agrees calmly. “You lucked out finding him, didn’t you? He looks a great deal like my son did, at that age.”

“The thing is that we were going to use Joe to con you into giving us the reward money, but when we met with Quynh, something very strange happened. I used this line on Joe when I met him, but I think it might be true. I think it may have been destiny that brought Joe to me, that brought me to him.”

“He is an actor,” says the Empress, but Nicky can hear the growing doubt in her voice.

“No,” Nicky says. “He is a lost orphan and teacher who has no memory of his life from before he was eleven,” he corrects her. “He does have glimmers, of course. Andy thought they taught him well at the orphanage, but it soon became clear to me. Quynh asked him how he escaped. It was a question I did not anticipate,” he says. “I couldn’t prepare him. He gave the perfect answer,” he says, voice softening. “He knew how he was saved.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because I’m the one who took Yusuf into the secret walls in the palace to hide him away from the invaders,” he replies, eyes steely and sharp. “I was a kitchen boy working with my parents in the palace. They died that night, and then I lost Joe. In one night, I thought that I lost everything that mattered to me, but I didn’t lose him, not permanently. He’d lost his memories, his connection to his old life, but not entirely. There were pieces left, and he remembered the important ones. He remembered my coat, remembered the passage, even losing sight of me. No one else in the world knows that, do you understand?”

“You could be lying to me,” the Empress says haughtily.

“I could be,” Nicky allows. “Which is why you should meet him and let him prove it to you. Please,” Nicky begs, “I do not need you to accept him as your heir. I only need you to _meet_ him.”

“And when I am satisfied, then you will take my money, I suppose?”

Nicky gives a harrowed, hollow laugh. “It’s not about money, not anymore. I just want him to be happy,” he admits. “That’s what you need to understand. This isn’t about helping the Maghreb empire, not anymore. It’s about…”

It’s about Joe. It’s about seeing him smile.

“I know he hates me,” Nicky guarantees, his heart icy and aching. “I do not want him to lose out on his family because of me. I would never forgive myself.”

She makes a thoughtful humming sound, which is no response at all. “You don’t want the money, then?” 

It pains Nicky to say what he does next. If Andy ever finds out he had a chance to fight for the money, she will likely kill him.

“If it is the difference between you meeting him or not, then keep your money,” he vows. “I will go back to the capital and earn a living wage to do what I intended, but I don’t want it to stand between you and meeting him.”

Still, she gives him no actual answer. She is staring at Nicky as if she expects to understand him better, but says nothing. Finally, she clears her throat. This could be it, Nicky thinks. She’ll ask him to bring Joe to her, and maybe there is a chance that Joe can find his happiness, even if Nicky is no longer someone he wants to see. 

“Take me home, please,” she says. 

He did say he would do that, didn’t he? Nodding, he turns around and lets the cap remain on the other seat, hair in a ruffled mess (which he keeps making worse by running his fingers through it on the drive home). 

He keeps his promise and drives her home safely, even as his insides twist up in guilt and dismay when she doesn’t utter a single other word to him. Quynh is waiting for him, obviously disapproving when he rolls the window down to reveal that he’s the one in the driver’s seat. “Andy warned me that you were going to do something stupid,” Quynh says under her breath, keeping an eye on the Empress as she gets out of the car.

Nicky isn’t sure what else he could have done. “I had to try,” he admits.

“She hasn’t agreed?”

Nicky shakes his head. 

Quynh squeezes his shoulder. “Go pick up the driver and give the car back,” she instructs. “I’ll see what I can do to make her listen to sense.” 

He hates giving up control like this and it must show in his expression, because Quynh serves him back a sharp look.

“Nicky, do not test me,” she warns.

“Fine,” Nicky huffs, shaking his head. “Just remember, it’s for Joe. He deserves this. It doesn’t matter who I am or what I’ve done. My sins should not rob this chance from him.” He would sacrifice anything for Joe. For Yusuf, he already has. All those years ago, he had chosen Yusuf over his own family. He reaches for his bag and digs through it to find the music box, thrusting it into Quynh’s hand. “Use this,” he pleads. “Tell her that I found it in the palace, but that Joe, he should get it. It’s his, after all.” 

It has to mean something. It has to be for _something_. Maybe he can help, even after he’s ruined everything.

“Go,” Quynh says again, though softer. “I’ll make sure she listens.” 

What more can he ask for? Fighting every instinct inside him that tells him not to leave until the job is done, Nicky rolls up the window and closes the door. He returns to the concert hall to fetch the driver (still sitting, dejectedly) on the empty steps. With his cap and keys returned, Nicky stares down a very long walk back to the hotel. 

Right now, with his head the mess that it is, it might just be the best thing for him.

Now, all he has to do is hope that Quynh will succeed where Nicky didn’t and get the Empress to give Joe a chance -- Nicky knows that once he has that, it will be all he needs.

* * *

When Joe arrives back at the hotel from a long walk to clear his head, Quynh is waiting in his room.

“How did you get in here?” he demands, after he’s done jumping and holding onto his chest for fear that he’s about to have a very youthful heart attack. 

Quynh eyes him thoughtfully. “I don’t know how she didn’t see it,” she muses, half to herself. “I suppose that’s what grief does to you.” She lifts Joe’s suitcase, adjusting it to roll behind her. “The Empress would like to see you. Tonight,” she informs him. “I’ve been sent to collect you and your things and bring you to her.”

“What happened to no more?” he wonders, doing his best to keep any hope from digging its claws back into his heart.

Quynh walks past him, glancing over her shoulder. “Ask her yourself when you get there.”

Joe looks to his bags, hesitating in the room despite Quynh’s stripping it bare. “What about Andy and Nicky?”

“Given the scene you made at the ballet, I wouldn’t think you cared,” Quynh says coolly. “Andy is at my estate, where she’ll be staying with me. Do you want to know where Nicky is?”

Joe thinks of all the lies, the deceit, and the hope that Nicky had given him, only to have it all crushed. To think that Joe had felt as if they had something _real_. He steels himself and shakes his head. “No,” he says, his hurt speaking for him. “I don’t care where that villain is.” He had lied, constantly, to Joe. He’d made him feel such things for him, and maybe that’s why Joe is so upset with him.

He had taken Joe’s trusts, his hopes, his dreams, and his _love_ and made a deceitful mockery of them. 

“Then let’s go,” Quynh encourages. 

Joe isn’t sure what to make of Quynh taking all his possessions with them, but then, he never thought to ask what happens to the hotel tomorrow. Maybe they were always meant to leave and go their separate ways, with Joe staying with the Empress. Quynh leads him to a beautiful car and sits in the back with him.

“He’s not so bad, you know,” Quynh says, not needing to clarify which ‘he’ she’s talking about.

Joe glances up, dismally aware who she means. “He lied to me.”

“You followed a strange man to Malta and never considered he might have lied to get you to go with him?” 

He glares at her, unhappy that she’s able to read him that well. “He lied to me so well that he got me to start _believing_ it.” He lied to him and made Joe want him. There are layers to this betrayal that he feels deep in his soul, and it hurts to think that Nicky could do that to him. “It’s not as simple as a single lie to get me here,” he finally adds, quietly.

“I know all about complicated situations,” she vows. “You should feel lucky that the Empress is willing to give you another audience, but I’m about to say something that is going to complicate things even more.”

Oh? “What’s that?”

Quynh leans forward and taps two fingers to his heart. “In here, I truly believe that you are Yusuf Al-Kaysani, the lost prince of the Maghreb Empire. And worse, for you? It was Nicky and Andy who convinced me of it.” 

“How can you know that?”

“It doesn’t matter how I know. The Empress is the one who will decide, facts or not, who you are. If you truly still want a family, then you need to prove to her that you are Yusuf and not with any of the facts that Andy taught you or the manners or the dances. The Empress will only believe that you are her grandson with love and memory and heart.”

How the hell is Joe supposed to give any of that when he still barely knows who he is? When he’s still doubting himself because of all the _lying_ Nicky has done?

“Don’t think, Joe. Feel,” Quynh advises.

She’s pretty good at that. He can see why the Empress keeps her around. 

Joe is so busy questioning how he’s supposed to _feel_ that he doesn’t notice that they’ve arrived at the royal apartments, right in the heart of Valletta. He exits the car warily, not used to being anywhere without Andy and Nicky. In the last week, they’ve made it so that it feels like a habit to do this with them.

He’s not thinking about how it aches to know he’ll never see them again (or that it’s Nicky, specifically, that it hurts so much to think of never seeing). 

He steps inside the apartments, but his feet stop moving the instant he’s in the hall. Quynh has to double back to fetch him, bringing him onwards. “Quynh,” Joe says in alarm. “These look like bedrooms.”

“Well, you are a clever one, aren’t you?” she teases. “That’s what they are.” She ducks behind him, forcibly plowing him forward until they arrive at an ornate set of gold-leaf gilded doors. She reaches past his hip to open them, stepping forward once she’s managed to get Joe a few feet into the room. 

“My Lady,” Quynh says with a bow. “I’ve brought back Joe,” she says.

“Thank you,” the Empress says, turning in her chair where she sits near a makeup table. “Leave us, please.”

Quynh departs and closes the doors behind her. It leaves Joe standing in an old woman’s bedroom in awkward silence, approaching slowly to sit on the sofa across from the great wingback chair that the Empress is seated in, somehow making it appear as if it were a throne.

“That man of yours is a stubborn thing, isn’t he?”

Joe flinches, staring at the Empress from the centre of the sofa. “He’s not my anything,” he says bitterly. “I want nothing to do with him.” 

“I see,” the Empress says. “Well, I was persuaded to give you another chance thanks to him.”

He bows his head down, not sure what he’s meant to say. Quynh told him to speak from the heart, but try as hard as he can, when he does that, he still doesn’t feel he can find anything that says that he _is_ a lost prince. “I was supposed to tell you a story from the heart,” he admits, staring at the lush carpet. “The truth is, what I do remember is little. I’m not sure it will be enough.”

“Maybe I can help with that.”

With Joe’s head down, he hears rather than sees an object being placed on the table before them. Lifting his gaze, Joe stares at the singed music box that the Empress has taken out. The last he’d seen of it had been Nicky taking it from the palace, but now that he sees it within her hands, a melody comes to him.

Unbidden, he hums a touch of it, and only stops at the taken aback look on the Empress’ face.

“Sorry,” he says suddenly, not sure if he’s not supposed to sing or hum around royalty. He doesn’t remember that from Andy’s lessons, but who knows what these persnickety royals want. Rife with nerves, he draws out the chain he wears and fidgets with the key at the end to give his fingers something to do. “It’s a song I’ve dreamt of for ages.”

“I know it,” the Empress says, her voice trembling. Her eyes are fixed on Joe’s hands. “What is that?”

Joe frowns, lifting up the key. “This? I don’t know. It was around my neck when they found me. I’ve tried homes, lockers, boxes, cases, but nothing has ever opened with it.”

“Try this,” the Empress says, sliding the music box towards Joe.

Sure enough, there’s a lock with a space fit for a key, almost exactly the size of the one Joe possesses. His fingers shake slightly as he reaches for the music box, rubbing his thumb over the singed edges. Never in his life has he heard a more beautiful sound than the key sliding into the lock and the _click_ as it gives way.

(That’s a lie, he’s heard more beautiful; it happens to be Nicky’s laugh, when Joe has made him smile and light up like the sun)

Staring at the music box, he opens it cautiously, watching as a tiny set of dancers begin to twirl around on their gears while the sound of lutes drift from the box, tinny and comforting. 

“I know that song,” Joe says, inhaling deeply and catching a familiar scent. He does it again, staring warily at the Empress as he identifies that the scent he finds so familiar is the perfume she’s wearing. 

Like the key in the music box lock, something spills loose within Joe. 

“Your perfume,” he murmurs. “I spilled a bottle of it on one of my coats,” he recalls. “It’s why I didn’t have it the night of the riots. They had taken it to be cleaned against my wishes. I told them that I wanted it, that it reminded me of you,” he speaks as if the memories are taking on their own life. “It was such a smell,” he laughs to remember, “Nicolò made such a face…” 

He blinks, realizing what he’s said. He doesn’t understand. How does he know Nicky from before? How have these memories been hiding beneath the surface all this time?

Hurt, lost, and hopeful, Joe lifts wide eyes to stare at the Empress.

“I missed you so much, but I was so glad you weren’t there the night of the riots,” Joe speaks, his voice hoarse with grief. “I lost everything. I…” His breath catches. “I would have died, if not for Nicky saving my life.”

The riots which killed his family, and the ones that likely killed Nicky’s as well. He had chosen Yusuf over them, only to lose Yusuf as well.

The Empress stares at him, shocked. It looks as though Joe’s heart hadn’t been devoid of answers after all. Without another word, she finally moves from her chair to sit with Joe, sweeping him into her arms for an embrace he’s waited decades for. He buries his face in her shoulder, clinging desperately tight to her gown.

“I never wanted you to go,” he protests. “I missed you, Mameti, all these years.”

“Not half as much as I missed you, my sweet Yusuf.” 

In this moment, he should have everything that he’s dreamed of and wanted. Yet, he feels hollow. It’s as if something is missing. His grandmother seems to sense it, stroking her palm over his hair as she eases him back. 

“You’re unhappy.”

He doesn’t want to be. Even without all his memories back in place, he’s found her. He’s come home. This should be everything he’s wanted, shouldn’t it? Yet, he feels a stubborn ache that he understands completely. Something is missing, and he knows exactly what (who) it is.

“Is it because of that man?” 

Stubbornly, even feeling what he does in his heart, he’s not willing to let his grudge go so easily. “Nicky lied to me.”

“He did,” the Empress agrees. “He also chased me down after you had told him off and then abandoned all the reward money so long as I gave you another chance.”

Alarmed at that news, Joe wonders if he’s misheard her. “He turned down the money?”

“He said that the only good that he wanted was to give you happiness,” she says, clearly repeating his words. “It’s a romantic thought, for someone so brokenhearted. I believe he was going back to the capital.” 

Nicky is _leaving_. 

That’s what he wanted, isn’t it? 

The conflict must show in his expression, because the Empress reaches out to take his hand in hers. “You are my only surviving grandchild,” she says, voice breaking. “I let myself deny the possibility of you, but you are. You are Yusuf Al-Kaysani.”

“I don’t remember that boy,” Joe confesses. “I want to, but I can’t. I think he might be lost forever.”

“I see,” the Empress whispers. “Well,” she continues. “I suppose that with the years I have left, there’s nothing wrong with spending some of that time learning about who Joe Jones is,” she says, fixing her eyes on him. “If that’s what you wanted. You could stay with me, here in Malta. We could be a family again.”

It’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear.

So why is it that he feels so hesitant? 

“Unless there is something else that you wish to do with your life,” the Empress continues speaking. “Perhaps, there is _someone_ else that you would rather spend your future with, even if he is a con man and uses lies for his purposes.” 

He shouldn’t want this, yet every ounce of him sings with desperation to go and talk to Nicky. If nothing else, he needs to understand why he turned down the money. Past that, he needs to know why it is that Nicky hadn’t simply _told_ him that he’s truly Yusuf, the moment that their stories aligned.

To think of all the years they wasted, if only they had known, if only Nicky could have found him earlier. 

“And what about you?”

“Me?” The Empress laughs wryly. “I’m an old woman, Yusuf, dear. I won’t be running away from Malta anytime soon,” she guarantees, kissing his cheek. Joe closes his eyes and breathes in the scent of her perfume. She reaches for the key in the music box, pressing it into the palm of Joe’s hand. “Go and get your man, if that’s what you want. Whatever you decide, I’ll be right here, my heart.”

Joe stares at her and realizes that it really is Nicky that he’s missing. 

“Can I borrow one of your cars?”

His grandmother (he has a _grandmother_ , he has a family, he is a royal-born prince and that’s something he’s not sure he can cope with right now, but he’ll get there) nods and calls for one of her valets. 

“Take him anywhere he likes.”

Joe swoops in to kiss his grandmother’s cheek, overwhelmed with an emotion he’s not sure he’s ever felt in his life. Relief? Relief and a new sense of belonging. He’s had it before with Booker and his family at the orphanage, but never like this. There’s always been a piece missing because he’s never known about his history.

Here it is.

He’s Prince Yusuf, he is loved, and not just by his grandmother.

He knows there’s a kitchen boy who’s been looking out for him this whole, even if Joe had thought that Nicky didn’t want him. All that time and it looks like Nicky had been trying to keep his distance because he thought it would be best for _Joe_.

“I will be back to see you,” Joe vows. 

“Breakfast?” she suggests. “It’s been a very long time since we ate breakfast together.”

“I’d like that, very much,” Joe promises.

He leaves the Empress’ apartments feeling like a new man. And, well, he is one. He fiddles with his collar to loosen it, realizing he’s still in his clothes from the ballet. What a night it’s been and though the hours creep on towards the next day, he knows it’s not over yet.

As promised, there’s a car waiting for him. Joe climbs in and gives Quynh’s estate address, watching the quiet city pass as they drive out towards the country. 

Despite how late it is when they arrive, the lights are still on. He asks the driver to wait, just in case he doesn’t find Nicky here, and then begins his walk up the cherry petal-covered walkway. When Joe gets closer, he sees that Andy is sitting on the porch, sipping a drink as she sways on the wooden swing. “The Empress telephoned ahead,” she explains.

When Joe gets closer, he can see that Andy’s hair is clearly bed-mussed, which means that she’d either been sleeping or doing something (or someone) else entirely. Joe suspects he knows which of the two it was.

“I need to know where Nicky is.”

“Why?” Andy asks suspiciously. “He’s already broken hearted, I’m not sending you after him for round two.” 

“I need to talk to him,” Joe insists. 

She says nothing. From what Joe’s been told, Andy and Nicky have been thick as thieves (literally) for over a decade. Who is he to suddenly barge in and demand she betray him?

“Andy,” he begs, grasping at her hands. “Please. I don’t know if I can live with myself if I sent him off, with him thinking I hate him.”

“You don’t, then?”

Breathless, Joe shakes his head. “No,” he exhales, eyes wide as tears begin to form. “I don’t know…” He pauses, forces himself to close his eyes. He presses a hand over his heart and _feels_ , the way Quynh had told him. “No, I do know,” he vows. “He saved my life when I was eleven, then he found me and gave me a future. I want to kiss that man every morning, I want to hold his hand as we walk the pier. I want to introduce him to my grandmother not as a con man, but as _mine_. I want…”

Andy is looking at him with a sympathetic fondness, waiting for Joe to put the final piece together.

“I want Nicky,” Joe admits.

There it is. Suddenly, the world feels right. 

Something gives in Andy’s defiance, her expression softening now that Joe has arrived at that earth-shaking epiphany. “I’m sorry, Joe. He left as soon as he got back to the hotel, once Quynh had taken you to the Empress. He’s intending to take the ship back to Maghreb, to go back to the capital.”

Joe’s heart sinks like a boat’s anchor sweeping to the bottom of the ocean. His shoulders sag, his mouth falls open, and he stares at Andy. “He’s gone,” he echoes.

“He intended to go,” Andy clarifies. “Nicky hasn’t been here in a very long time, but it’s a funny thing. Quynh mentioned that the ships out aren’t entirely reliable at this hour lately,” she muses. “It’s not a guarantee,” she warns, “but maybe you should have that driver take you back to the port.”

Darting forward, Joe grasps Andy into a full body embrace, lifting her onto her feet as she lets out a yelp of delight. 

“Let me down!” she protests. “Prince or not, you’re wasting time with me when you should be going after Nicky,” she says, pushing at him. “Go!”

“Thank you,” Joe insists, backing away as he presses both palms to his lips to gesture to her with an appreciative blown kiss. “Andy, thank you. For the lessons, for the confidence, for the motivation, and for this.” He nearly trips on the path, and he spares one last, “Thank you!” loudly before rushing to the car, giving the driver his instructions.

He needs to get to the port, now.

“As fast as you can,” Joe insists. “If you have to break the law, do it.”

Maybe being royalty can help in situations like these, because who could tell the prince no, when his heart is on the line? 

They make it back to the city in record time. The driver leans out when Joe is running out of the car, asking if he should wait for him. Walking backwards, Joe shakes his head. “Go!” he encourages, feeling passionately determined that whatever is going to happen, he’s not going to leave until he finds Nicky.

He might even board a ship to catch up with him in Maghreb if he has to. His grandmother will be waiting for him, but every moment that passes without being able to talk to Nicky is unacceptable. He’s still so mad at him, but Joe’s beginning to understand his fury is from the combination of being lied to, but for different reasons.

If Nicky’s known since Quynh’s (and he must have, the moment Joe told his story, he must have), then why didn’t he tell him? Why didn’t he tell Joe the truth?

None of it matters until he gets a chance to talk to Nicky. Picking up speed, Joe begins to jog, the remaining pieces of his suit ill-suited to a run. His shoes pinch at his toes and the shine is long gone from them. He unbuttons another of the crisply starched shirt buttons and desperately searches around him for signs of life on the pier.

There’s a few people still lingering, but one matters more than any.

At the very end of the pier, a man sits dejectedly on a suitcase, painting an outline that Joe would recognize anywhere. Breathing out in relief, Joe slows down as he approaches, suddenly hitting a wall of nerves that he hadn’t felt in his determination to get here.

Now, he’s up against it.

Joe steadies himself, reminding himself that he’d spent a week preparing to be the grown version of a boy he’s forgotten. He’s had a lifetime to know who Joe Jones is, and that man fights for the things he loves, and especially the people he loves. 

“Andy told me that you’d be gone by now,” Joe calls out to Nicky.

Nicky startles, nearly falling off his suitcase and into the water. Lucky for him that he doesn’t, even if Joe wouldn’t have minded seeing all of Nicky’s clothes sticking to his skin. He stands to face Joe, wringing his hands, but he’s not ruining his hair which is a step up from how he normally processes his nerves. 

“I missed the last ship,” Nicky says, gesturing to the empty piers. “I’ll take the first one out in the morning.” His voice is dull, hollow, and instantly Joe wants to do absolutely anything in the world to avoid ever hearing Nicky sound like that. 

Still, Joe is _delighted_ to discover that Quynh’s intel had been right. The ships out of Malta don’t sail as frequently as they used to.

“I got an audience with the Empress,” Joe says. “But I think you already knew that.” 

Nicky says nothing, which means Joe is going to have to bring out the big guns.

“Nicolò di Genova,” Joe says hoarsely. 

That gets his attention. Nicky’s gaze snaps up, staring at him with wide eyes. 

“I thought you swore to protect me and my family.”

“Some job I did of it,” Nicky snorts, sagging down against the railing as he stares out to the sea. The sun is beginning to rise in the East, the clouds in the sky burnished pink and orange, which tinges Nicky’s hair with those pastel colours. Joe reaches out to smooth a lock of it back, even if the wind is trying its best to push it out of the way. “I lost you and then I lied to you.” Even Joe’s touch can’t convince Nicky to look at him, but he’s not done trying.

“You reunited me with the only family I have left.”

“I’m a con artist who tricked an amnesiac orphan into playing a lost prince so I could take an old woman’s money.” 

“Why, Nicky?”

“Because it’s worked before, because it’s…”

“No, Nicky,” Joe cuts him off. “Why did you want the money?”

Nicky turns to face him, miserable, and it makes Joe’s heart ache. He already knows the answer. Andy had told him on the train that day and in retrospect, he knows now that she hadn’t been lying about any of it. For years, Nicky blamed himself for what happened that night, whether because of his own actions or because of his people, and he’s sought to accumulate wealth to help others.

He’s a good man, even if he doesn’t think so.

“Your grandmother was sitting on it, doing nothing,” he finally snaps, letting the words bleed out. “I was going to help the children in the capital with repairs on their homes, and food, and education, the way I never got. The way that you did, with this Booker of yours.”

“And you gave it all up,” Joe says in disbelief. “You had a great big dream to help people, but my grandmother told me that you abandoned any chance at the reward if only she would give me another audience.”

“Because you’re my dream, Joe,” Nicky admits. “I spent years without anything. I lost my parents that night and I lost you, but there were always rumours. I dreamed about you. I thought maybe we would reunite when we were younger. You and I, in classes, would connect and instantly know one another. Instead, I became a street urchin and you turned into a respectable teacher.”

“An orphan,” Joe corrects. “I was going to help restore the walls of the palace that I lost my family in,” he says, shaking his head as the reality comes crashing down and he begins to see his life in a new light. 

He’s not sure that he’ll ever go back to that city, not unless Nicky wants to.

“You have a good heart,” Joe swears, pressing his palm to Nicky’s chest as he steps towards him. “The fact that you feel this badly about what you’ve done tells me that. You’re not perfect. Neither am I,” he admits. “But, I left my grandmother earlier this evening because I had everything I should want. I had a secure future, I had financial comfort, I had _family_ , and I had pieces of my lost life knitting together.”

Nicky’s brow furrows. “Then why are you here and not there?”

“Because for all that I wanted and desperately craved those things, that’s not enough.”

Joe can feel the warmth of the sun on his cheeks, but the only thing he truly sees is the way Nicky shines in its light. With the sun as a backdrop behind Nicky, it looks almost as if he’s got a halo. Joe might be a crown prince, but it’s as if the sun has deigned to crown Nicky its king. 

He reaches out, fingers tentatively tracing up Nicky’s cheek, sliding through those errant locks of hair sent out of place by the wind and Nicky’s fidgeting. “You’ve given me back my family. You’ve given me a grandmother and a future, but there’s one problem.”

Nicky’s gaze is fixed on Joe’s mouth, it’s clear, but his brow is furrowed. 

“What?”

“I need one more thing from you.”

Nicky’s beautiful eyes are still on Joe’s mouth, but they flicker up at that. He looks defensive, as if upset that he would ever deny Joe anything. “What is it?”

He sounds so preciously alarmed. Joe grins at him, happy and warmed and loved, and he feels like he’s bursting with joy as he makes his request. “Kiss me.”

“...Kitchen boys don’t kiss…”

That’s enough of that. Joe grabs Nicky by the shirt, hauls him in, and kisses him hard and fast to cut off any other stupid protests that Nicky might have. He kisses this man the way he’s been wanting to since he woke up with his arms around Nicky and it was the safest he’s ever felt. He kisses him like he knows there’s only ever going to be this man that he kisses for the rest of his life. All his kisses will belong to him, this infuriating, stubborn, lying bastard with too many snide opinions about Joe’s upbringing.

And he loves him, in spite of it. Maybe even because of it. 

He’s fallen in love with him so quickly, because Joe thinks a part of his heart and soul has known all along who he is. 

Joe eases back from the kiss to marvel at Nicky’s startled face, his mussed hair, and his wide-eyed shock and delight. Tenderly, Joe cups his cheek, leaning in to press a far chaster kiss to the corner of his lips. “I want to do that a thousand more times.”

“Does this mean you’re not mad at me anymore?” Nicky asks hopefully.

Joe laughs and wraps his arm around Nicky’s shoulders to pull him in, turning them so they can watch the sun rising. “Oh, we’ll have words about you tricking me into this, not to mention lying after you knew, but I’m going to stick around and we’ll have all those arguments together.”

Nicky looks brighter than he has since Joe’s met him, sagging with relief. “I’d like that. Very much.”

That feels right. Joe feels a sense of wholeness for the first time since he can remember. The memories aren’t all there. He’s still missing whole swaths of his childhood, but the important things are there because he _feels_ them. 

It’s like Quynh said -- he’s letting his heart guide this one.

It’s early days, but Joe has a good feeling that it won’t steer him wrong.

* * *

“I still think you have spent the last two weeks exacting revenge on me.”

Joe grins as he looks at Nicky, thinking that he’s both very sweet and very _right_ about his guess. They’d planned a trip back to the mountains in the Maghreb so they could go back and visit Booker (seeing as Nile was visiting and Booker wanted all his children home at the same time). For the last two weeks, Joe has been preparing Nicky with history, lessons, and an education on how to compliment Booker on his mediocre cooking.

“Not everyone can be a secret chef like you,” Joe had pointed out.

To which Nicky rolled his eyes and reminded him, “Former kitchen boy. I did learn some things.”

It’s been, admittedly, a lot of learning to do. Nicky has been soaking it up like an eager sponge, determined to do right by Joe.

“Besides, if it is revenge I was after, I would be exacting it on Andy,” Joe points out, leaning forward to check for traffic before making the final turn up the drive to the orphanage. 

He’d come back to the capital for the heap of a car that Booker had given him, grateful to find it still covered up with a sheet in the garage he’d left it in. Never mind that he could afford ten times better than this car, this is the one that Booker sent him off with and this is the one he wants to drive home in. 

Joe and Nicky had spent weeks finding parts in scrap yards and putting it back together. It had been fun to spend time together, and a relief that his life didn’t have to change too much (even if it was unavoidable to admit that it had changed, because when he and Nicky had given up in frustration, their combined funds had come in handy bringing in a mechanic).

“You’re still upset about that, are you?” Nicky asks, amused.

“She’s the one who gave me such migraines learning about all my cousins.”

“Some of them were very nice people,” Nicky comments. “I liked your cousin Alia. I believe she is living in Paris these days.”

Joe squints at Nicky, reaching over to squeeze his knee. “You wouldn’t be trying to make me jealous, as I’m bringing you home to meet my family, would you, Nicolò?” The heated look Nicky gives him in response is all the soothing Joe’s jealous heart might need (if he were actually ruffled).

It’s also wildly inconvenient, sitting outside the orphanage as they are. They could try and fit their way into the back seat, but two grown men of their heights is a recipe for disaster, never mind the fact that with Joe’s luck, one of the kids is likely to stumble upon them. 

They’re expecting him, too, so at some point, someone is going to come out and find them in their old heap of a car.

Joe’s written ahead because he thinks that if anyone deserves a warning about how his life has changed recently, it’s Booker. Despite Joe’s insistence that he’s not going to be a prince or in line with the throne, his grandmother had made sure that he had money, a home, and anything he could want.

That includes a brand new car for him to drive, which Joe had turned down to drive this one. He might be regretting that now, yearning for a bigger back seat. 

“Is he going to like me?” Nicky asks warily, ducking towards the mirror to fix his hair.

“Stop that,” Joe chides. “Of course he will.” He smirks at Nicky and pulls the mirror towards the driver’s seat to comb his fingers through his newly grown-in beard. 

Prince Joe of the Maghreb Kingdom is not Prince Yusuf, and he’s decided that if he wants to wear a beard, then he gets to have a beard. 

This close, Joe takes advantage of his hold on Nicky, pulling him in to kiss him. He does it again, and then a third time just to confirm he’s not dreaming. He is fairly blissful as he backs away, licking his lips as he stares in wonder at his Nicky, ever the worried and reliable partner. 

“How do you know that?” Nicky mumbles, his eyes still closed.

“Because Booker loves me and I love you,” Joe promises, catching movement out of the corner of his eye.

There’s no hiding now.

“We’ve been spotted,” he announces with delight, giving Nicky one last kiss before he vaults out of the car, stretching his legs as he bolts for Booker. “I thought you’d come drag me out of the car, old man!” he laughs, grabbing Booker to pull him into a hug.

“I wasn’t sure you had pants on,” Booker retorts. “I thought it was safer out here.”

Joe squeezes him a little tighter, making sure that Nicky is also getting out of the car and hasn’t decided to run the engine and bolt. Luckily, he’s out of the car, lingering on the outskirts while Joe has his reunion with the family that took him in when he’d had nothing at all.

“Probably a good call,” Joe laughs, and gives Booker one last tight squeeze to make him breathless before he finally lets go of him. 

“You know, I always knew you were something else,” Nile says when Joe is done with Booker him. She grabs him into a tight embrace, while Booker’s sons line up behind her, ready for their own greeting. “I just thought you were the biggest pain in the ass brother a girl could have. Now I can genuinely call you a royal pain in my ass,” she says, delighted to make the joke.

“Not bad, not bad,” Joe laughs, hugging her again. “Nile, I want you to meet Nicky,” he says, dragging his boyfriend over. “He’s the con artist who plucked me off the streets and turned me into a real prince.”

Nicky gets all sweetly flustered, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I don’t think...I didn’t mean...I had…”

“I love him all the same,” Joe cuts him off, lifting Nicky’s hand to his lips to brush a kiss to his knuckles.

This repeats. Booker’s boys take their turns hugging Joe, ribbing him, then greeting Nicky. Adele, Booker’s wife and Joe’s surrogate mother, is inside preparing lunch, which means that they’ll get to sit down and enjoy a good old family lunch and not one of his Mameti’s official functions.

He feels guilty looking forward to it so much, but manners are _very_ annoying when you’ve spent most of your life fighting for food at the table with plenty of grubby hands grabbing for whatever is left.

“I hope you boys are hungry,” Booker says, once Joe has exhausted all his greetings and can sag back into Nicky’s waiting arms.

As ever, it’s the place he feels most protected and loved, and he doesn’t intend to stay away too long from this place, even with how his life has changed. 

They lead them into the kitchen where the table is fit to burst with lunch. Joe’s stomach growls audibly, which gets a laugh from everyone and pretty much decides that the time for conversation is done and lunch should be served. Joe eagerly slides into his usual seat, dragging Nicky down to join him. 

“ _Bonjour_ , Adele,” Joe greets dutifully, presenting his cheek so she can kiss it even as he reaches for large portions of food to pile on his plate. The conversation continues around them, with Jean-Pierre saying a rushed grace so they can eat. 

Andy might have tried to teach Joe manners, but he’s at home again and he can feel them slipping away. 

“Prince of the kingdom,” Booker complains, reaching out with his fork to swipe at Joe’s elbows, “and you still lean on my table like you want to bring it down.” He turns his gaze to Nicky, gesturing to him with the knife. “I thought you taught him some manners when you were presenting him to the Empress.”

Nicky looks stunned by the accusation, mouth open for an awkward moment of silence before he blurts out, “Have _you_ tried to teach him manners?” 

Booker gives him a wry smirk. “His elbows are still on the table, even after both you and I tried. We’re both failures.”

Nicky cups Joe’s cheek with his palm, stroking his hair back with his fingers. “I love him all the same.”

It invokes a retching sound from some of the younger kids, some cooing from Nile, and it’s the exact right thing to say to make Joe melt. Joe sees the moment both Booker and Adele look at Nicky and their gazes shift to approval. 

Joe leans in to whisper as much, promising that Nicky’s got their approval. “You’re doing so well,” he praises, loving the way that Nicky’s cheeks flush at the compliment.

“ _Grazie, amore_ ,” Nicky replies, slightly flustered. 

He keeps his head down and focuses on his food, but not impolitely. He answers questions about his background (mostly honestly, even), and talks about his favourite foods and what Malta is like. Nile keeps asking Joe what it’s like to be a prince, to the point that he needs to try and shut her up with a singular look. 

“For the last time, I am not talking about how much gold I have,” he retorts irritably.

“Nile, dear, leave him be,” Adele gently coaxes, getting up to start clearing plates now that people have finished eating. Nile relents, but clearly makes a signal that she intends to grill Joe about this plenty more later. 

Far be it for him to escape his fate of sharing royal gossip with his adopted sister. 

“What’s next?” Booker asks, once Adele has cleared all the food. “Our home is open to you as long as you like, of course.”

Joe nods, taking Nicky’s hand in his under the table. “We know,” he promises. “I thought that maybe Nicky and I would go back to the palace and see the restoration finished. My grandmother has sent funds with me so I can help it along, turn it into a museum to honour our family and respect the future of the country.”

“And then?” Nile prods.

What then? Joe turns to Nicky and thinks of finding him in that palace. He thinks of old lullabies and lost grandmothers. He thinks of con artists, of happiness in a Maltese home, and of Nicky’s original purpose.

“There’s a lot of people who are worse off than I ever was,” Joe says, not looking away from Nicky, not for a second. “And my grandmother was kind enough to give me the reward money for finding myself,” he teases.

Nicky’s eyes are softening by the moment.

“You want to help the children?”

“Of course, _ya amar_ ,” Joe vows, his voice soft. “It’s what brought you to me. I wouldn’t forget what you wanted to do with that money, even if you did nearly turn me into an actor to do it.” 

Once more, Nicky seems struck by Joe’s words. It’s the perfect opportunity for Joe to lean in and steal a kiss, smiling sunnily as he eases back. “Yusuf,” Nicky breathes out. “You are incredible.”

“I know,” he agrees cheerfully, rubbing his thumb over the back of Nicky’s palm, thrilled with the way Nicky practically melts into his side.

“If you’re going to the capital, are you going to see the play, then?” Nile asks.

Joe gapes at her, blankly. “Play?”

“They’re putting on a play about your life,” she keeps going, staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “Actually, I think the scriptwriter and lead actor said he was inspired by an audition he didn’t get, but when he didn’t see a production, he thought he’d take it on himself.”

“ _Santa maria_...”

Joe is loving this. 

“A failed audition, you say?” He’s thrilled, grinning at Nicky. “We have to go,” he insists. “You started this man’s career. Just think, if you had taken him instead of me, I might be on that stage and you might be someone else’s boyfriend.”

He’s teasing, but Nicky doesn’t smile.

“No,” he says, serious as anything. “There has never been anyone else for me. There never will be. Just as you needed to find your family, I needed to find you.”

How dare Nicky say things like that while he’s worried that he’s never going to get Joe’s family’s approval? Over the table, a hush falls at the wonderfully romantic words, and it almost seems like no one is willing to be the one to break it.

Until, of course, his dear adopted father comes along:

“He’s too good for you, Joe,” Booker announces. “Prince or not.”

Joe knows that too. Gazing into Nicky’s eyes, he pulls him in for another kiss to prove that he’s willing to spend his whole life proving that Nicky’s not too good at all, but exactly what he’s needed all his life. 

“He is,” Joe promises. “He’s too good for me, and more.” His lips curve up in a giddy smile. “And you know what?” Nicky nearly mouths ‘what’, the precious idiot, before Joe goes on. “He’s _mine_.”

“Forever,” vows Nicky.

The chorus of fawning returns, but Joe doesn’t pay any attention to it. He’s too busy pulling Nicky in for yet another kiss in a never-ending line of them. And when he’s this close, it’s impossible for Nicky to lean back before Joe whispers, “We’re definitely going to see that play, though.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else, but they will get the ending wrong.”

That’s okay. Joe doesn’t need the play to have a happily ever after on stage that matches reality. It never could, because he’s living it, and there’s no way in the world that anyone would believe that this could be reality. 

It is, though. And it’s a perfect ending for a prince and his kitchen boy.


End file.
